


the magic of little findings

by eddiekissbrak



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Good Parent Frank Kaspbrak, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating will go up, Slow Burn, snails are a large part of this fic, somewhat of a "The Way Way Back" au, the losers are collegeish age, water park AU, yes you read that correctly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiekissbrak/pseuds/eddiekissbrak
Summary: Eddie's mom actuallyisdead, and his dad actuallyisn't.So that's something he's dealing with.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 78
Kudos: 117





	1. lose one get one free (limited sale!)

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW alright some things right off the bat:  
> \- thank you to east & raye for beta'ing & murryn for her giant fuckin' brain  
> \- don't worry guys georgie will NOT be dying this time (no character deaths past sonia!)  
> \- coming soon: falling in love over walkie talkies, "the trouble trio" and all their antics, everyone has a crush on maggie tozier, and all the magic of bored 20-somethings working at a water park

**_May, 2005_ **

**_Chamberlain, Maine_ **

Eddie Kaspbrak meets his dead father for the first time at his mom’s funeral. Actually, Eddie is pretty sure the term for the current ceremony is wake, not funeral; then again he’d also been  _ pretty sure _ that his father was fucking dead, so maybe Eddie isn’t  _ pretty sure _ of anything. 

Well, he is _ pretty sure  _ his mom is dead. Positive, even. If she’s not, the urn on the front table surely must be full of someone else.

It feels weird to have a wake for — well, for anyone, especially since Eddie’s only just turned twenty-two — but it feels especially weird to have one for someone who’s already been cremated. He doesn’t even want to be having it, not really, but even in death Sonia manages to get what she wants from her son. That and the church insisted on something being done. Sonia never really frequented for worship, but she did manage to go out for bingo night once a week with some of the other Parrish hens. Eddie checks his watch and then flicks his eyes back over the empty room. The only other person here, the priest, coughs wetly into his robes and then turns the page on his romance novel. 

“I think we can get started if you’re ready, Father Gillispie.” 

Father Gillispie doesn’t look up from his book. To be fair,  _ The Last Rodeo Clown _ does look like a thrilling read.

“Father Gillispie,” Eddie says, three times as loud, and the Father jumps slightly as he snaps his book shut. He too surveys the room.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for anyone else?” 

Eddie shakes his head, so Father Gillispie begins his slow wobble towards the front of the room. As Eddie drops into the aisle seat of the front row, the parlor door opens, and a man with one of the bushiest mustaches he’s ever seen walks in. 

“Sorry I’m late; mixed up my turns.” 

“No need to apologize,” Father Gillispie wheezes at the podium. “We’re just getting started.” 

The stranger sits in the opposite aisle seat. It’s a small town, a fucking small town, so it’s weird that Eddie doesn’t recognize this guy. At least… he’s pretty sure he doesn’t recognize this guy.  _ Pretty sure _ , except something about his face, or his mustache, or the way he walks like every step is half an apology... Something about him is so deeply familiar — Eddie just can’t place it. 

He spends the whole service attempting to figure out if and how he knows this strange, dark-haired man. Eventually, Father Gillispie’s droning wavers off into a final prayer, which Eddie repeats mindlessly before standing to collect things as quickly as humanly possible. Being in a funeral home is enough to make him uneasy, and the fact that it’s his mom’s ashes in the urn up there isn’t helping any; also the stranger hasn’t left yet, and Eddie’s hoping he can finish cleaning up before he has to interact with him while trying to process his mom’s — 

“Hello.” Forced. Awkward. Eddie’s hands stutter in their movements, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He just gives the man a little nod and then turns right back to packing. 

“Um. Hello. Can I help you?” 

The man pauses; falters. That clearly wasn’t an answer he’d been expecting, apparently. “I— No, no I don’t need any…” Eddie waits for the man to speak again, but he doesn’t. He just stares at Eddie, heavy and searching. Eddie shoves the picture frames in the cardboard box faster. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?” 

The man’s mouth opens and closes several times, like a fish. He looks kind of stupid while doing it, what with the mustache and everything. Eddie tries to focus on that instead of the growing dread in his stomach that something terrible is coming. 

“Sonia didn’t…” Eddie flinches at the mention of his mom’s name, and the man stops, but only briefly. “You don’t remember me?” 

“Hard to remember someone you’ve never met, right?” Eddie jokes. It’s not really a joke, he’s just desperately… nervous? Terrified? There’s a buzz inside him making his pulse skyrocket, and it’s not just the proceedings anymore. Eddie realizes the guy is still just staring, his own worried eyes boring holes into Eddie’s. He’s not sure he even  _ wants _ to know who this man is anymore. 

And then he drops the whole  _ I’m your father _ thing, and Eddie figures his face probably looks twice as stupid as this guy’s had a few moments ago. Actually, he’s not sure what his face is doing right now — he’s a bit preoccupied cycling _ ‘it’s me, Eddie; I’m your dad’ _ over and over in his head. Time either slows down or speeds up or stops completely, or maybe everything is just spinning faster than Eddie’s head can fully process. It’s me, Eddie; I’m your dad.

“No you’re not.” Twenty-two years old and all Eddie can think to say is no. As he denies it, a sour taste spikes at the back of his throat; he knows that, somehow, he’s wrong. “You’re not. You can’t be. My dad’s dead.” 

Frank laughs at that, something short and sharp and humorless, before he looks at Eddie with that fish face again. “She told you I was dead? She told you I was actually—”

“Dead, yes. So… sorry, but uh. I think you have the wrong funeral.” 

The man pulls out his wallet, FRANK KASPBRAK printed boldly across his driver’s license, and Eddie’s lungs tighten into rocks. 

“Ex— Excuse me I — I have to —” 

The faded plum walls go spinning gray again as Eddie stumbles down the hall. You know that thing that happens in movies where sounds zero out and ring in the character’s ears? Well, Eddie wishes that was happening to him because Frank’s worried calls still echo through the small funeral home, doing nothing but pumping fuel into the fire starting in Eddie’s throat. _ Asthma attacks  _ his mom calls —  _ used _ to call them. Even when they started happening more frequently, and even though they never seemed to happen when Eddie was actually running, Sonia refilled his inhaler prescription the first of every month. Until now, anyway. 

Eddie’s lungs burn faster.

The door swings open hard when Eddie pushes, almost slamming into the brick wall on the other side of it, but Eddie catches it at the last second as he tumbles out. Thoughts whirl around in his head so fast he can’t even hear what they are, can’t grab onto anything long enough to push the panic aside. _ Focus, Eddie, focus. _ There’s a cardinal on the branch of one of the maple trees staring at him: it’s red and small and it’s got black beady eyes and Jesus fucking Christ his  _ father _ is in there right now, holding a sealed jar with the ashes of the monster from Eddie’s closet, the ashes of every nightmare he ever had, the ashes of suffocation and pills rattling and  _ yes mommy _ ’s and— 

Inhaler pulled clumsily from his black suit pocket, Eddie clicks down on the button. The crisp spring air mixes with medicine and stings as he inhales greedily over and over again: cold bits of glass cutting holes to let in the oxygen little by little until the black spots disappear from his vision. The cardinal flies away. Eddie drops to sit on the curb, puts his head against his knees, and cries. Thankfully, the man — Frank —  _ his fucking father _ — lets him be. Maybe he’s getting the picture that perhaps the day of Sonia’s funeral is the worst of the worst possible days to come back into his son’s life. Maybe. 

But also maybe not, because ten minutes later Frank walks out with the box that Eddie had abandoned and big, brown, concerned eyes. The fish face comes again — open, close, open, close — and then Frank tightens his hold on the box. “I could go for some pancakes.”

* * *

They go out for pancakes. Eddie doesn’t order anything. Frank has no issue clearing the diner out of their short stacks and bacon, though, but he doesn’t have to deal with the appetite loss that comes with finding your mom post-heart attack in a Lay-Z-Boy less than a week ago. 

“So,” Frank says. There’s syrup in his mustache. “How did I die?”

Eddie blinks. Right. “Boating accident.” 

“Boating? Like a sailboat, or?” 

“She never specified.” Eddie rolls the paper straw wrapper between his thumbs. He’s been doing it so long his fingertips are numb. “She never talked about you at all. All she said was that you had ‘hurt her terribly’ and ‘abandoned her with me’.” 

“I—” Frank looks like he wants to argue, but that would be pointless. Sonia’s dead, and there’s no reason to argue against her lies to Eddie — Eddie knows better than anyone the reaches of her poisonous thoughts. “So you never got my letters?” 

The idea that Frank had attempted to reach out, especially so regularly, is shocking. The idea that Sonia had blocked all of those attempts? Not as shocking. Eddie slowly shakes his head; of course he hadn’t. There’s a parallel universe out there where Eddie grew up with his father’s letters (his father’s love) but there is also a parallel universe out there where his mom didn’t watch him swallow 10 meaningless pills every morning since he was seven years old. 

“Kind of a relief, if I’m being honest. Spent a long time thinking you just hated me.” Frank laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Eddie shifts uncomfortably on the ripped vinyl of the booth and the springs give a concerning groan. “You want any of my pancakes?”

“I can’t have gluten,” Eddie says on impulse. Then, slower, eyes trained on the short stack in front of his father: “I’m allergic.”

“Oh.” 

They lapse back into silence. The thing is… Eddie does kind of hate his father. It’s empty, fueled only by the oversized caricature that his mom had created of Frank, but it’s still there. It’s easy to believe your father a cruel man when all you have is stories, but when he’s sitting in front of you with syrup in his mustache trying to love you, how do you reconcile the truth of the universe with the truth of the last eighteen years of your life? Eddie watches Frank push bits of pancake across the white ceramic plate and his stomach makes a feeble attempt at hunger. Eddie knows that he can forgive Frank for getting the fuck out of the house when he still could; he doesn’t know if he can forgive Frank for leaving him there to rot alone.

They sit in silence until the check comes. 

When they leave, Frank sticks out his hand stiffly, and Eddie stares at it a half-second too long before meeting it with his own. 

“It’s been… I… Thank you,” Frank says eventually. “For not kicking me out of the funeral. And letting me talk to you.”

“I didn’t know who you were,” Eddie says, like that would’ve stopped him. Frank flashes a little smile, more relief than joy. 

“Still want to say thank you. I’m sure it’s not easy losing your mother and gaining a father in the same week.”

“It’s not.” 

They’re still shaking hands; Frank’s drops away quickly when he notices. “Well. I’ll, uh. See you around then.” 

Watching Frank’s green truck disappear around the bend seems final; Eddie figures this is the last he’ll see of his father unless he goes searching. Frank coming back to Chamberlain feels more like a bucket list item, a ‘ _ hey I’m your pops — see ya! _ ’ one and done kind of thing rather than a ‘ _ time to be a happy family too many years too late _ ’ kind of thing. 

Two weeks later, as Eddie Kaspbrak walks the stage to collect his degree from Chamberlain Community College, a lone cheer comes from the meager audience. Eddie’s face burns beet purple in embarrassment; with Sonia collecting dust on the mantle, there is only one person that voice can belong to.

“I brought flowers,” Frank says afterwards. He did bring flowers: they’re a bit wilted, and brown, but he hands them over like they’re made of the finest, most fragile glass. The tilt to his eyebrows is apologetic. “Only ones left at the grocery store.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says, a bit (a lot) awkwardly. He holds them too carefully in his hand, like they really are made of glass. Everything about Frank Kaspbrak returning to his son’s life is fragile. “Why did you… why are you here?”

Frank’s eyebrows twist with confusion. “To see you graduate.”

They’ve got the same eyebrows, Eddie notes. Thick and bushy and expressive to the point that it’s almost too difficult to lie through them. The eyes are the same too.  _ Big beautiful baby eyes, _ Sonia might say;  _ big dumb cow eyes, _ as Henry Bowers would say. Actually, if Eddie stares long enough at Frank, he starts to turn into some kind of freaky future-mirror — and yet Eddie hadn’t recognized him at all when he’d turned up last week. Unsurprising, seeing as how he’d been under the assumption that Frank Kaspbrak had been dead and buried since Eddie’s fourth birthday. 

“Finance, huh?” Frank points to the diploma folder under Eddie’s arm. “I didn’t know you were a numbers guy.”

“I’m not,” Eddie says. He’s not trying to be mean — there’s no way Frank could know that. But then, that’s the point, isn’t it? His voice softens and he looks away. “It was either finance or a nursing degree. There wasn’t a lot of choice on my end.”

“Well.” Frank clears his throat. “Got a lot more choice now, don’t you?”

That, Eddie supposes, is true. 

“I um. I didn’t know what to bring. I’ve never been to a graduation before, you know, so. I also brought this coupon book.” Frank holds up — yep — a coupon book. When Eddie takes it, a folded hundred tumbles to the ground. He freezes. 

At the diner, Frank insisted on paying. Eddie let him. Frank also insisted on giving Eddie a fistfull of cash— tried to slip it into his jacket pocket before getting into his truck. Eddie didn’t take it. He’s not some charity case; he doesn’t need a stranger coming to his door and handing him money in exchange for the years they’ve lost. It makes bile rise up in his stomach. 

“I don’t need your money—”

“I know, I—”

“I appreciate the offer but I really don’t need—”

“Wait, Eddie, don’t take this the wrong way—”

“I can take care of myself and—”

“Hey hey, listen. Hold on!” Frank’s hands go up, surrendering. Eddie’s jaw clamps shut. “I’m not trying to interfere. I know you’re a grown man, I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself, and I’m not trying to… I’m not trying to come in here and stomp on your toes, okay?”

Eddie nods. 

“I just want to…” Frank trails off. Help? Make up for the last eighteen years? Be a father? Eddie looks off towards all the other kids in maroon gowns. The other kids are with their families, the other kids are smiling for pictures; Eddie is standing with a father he thought was dead because his mom actually is. The other kids are smiling for the camera and they’re happy because they graduated college and they’re happy because it’s over— they get to start the rest of their lives. Eddie can’t figure out what this feeling in his stomach is and two weeks ago he thought his life would never be more than the confines of his mom’s house and hold. 

“I know I haven’t been here for you. It’s complicated, alright? I sent letters, I  _ tried _ … I know it doesn’t make any sense—”

“No, it does.” Eddie’s gaze finds Frank’s again. “I may not know you but I know — I  _ knew _ — my mother; I know she hated you. I know if you had shown up at our door she would’ve called the police. If you had tried to tell me the truth about… about  _ whatever _ , she would’ve found ways to twist it. She would’ve convinced me to stay. I can’t be mad at you for that.” And he can’t. Logically, Eddie knows this meeting couldn’t have happened any other way. Still… he  _ is _ mad. He’s mad that for almost eighteen years he’s been led to believe he was all alone in this world, tethered to Sonia’s mobile pharmacy for life. It isn’t Frank’s fault, no; but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

“My mom just died. My once dead father is alive and trying to slide me money  _ because _ my mom just died. Everything is just… a lot. All the time, but right now especially.” Frank’s mustache twitches; it’s hard to see beneath it, but from the lines in his cheeks, Eddie can assume he’s frowning. The hundred dollar bill crumples in his hand and Eddie takes a deep breath; lately, it seems, there’s not enough oxygen in the entire world to keep him inflated. “I— Thank you for making an effort. I will also make an effort.”

Frank nods slowly. “We are both making an effort.”

Eddie is beginning to understand why every TV show depicts men’s emotional conversations  _ Like That _ , and then makes a resolute decision to work as hard as he can to make his and Frank’s conversations not  _ Like That _ anymore. 

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life, Eddie. And I know you’re a smart kid. You work hard.” Frank can’t possibly know that, but Eddie appreciates that he’s trying. The compliments don’t feel as empty now. “But… Do you have a job lined up? Do you have savings?” 

Frank gives him a chance to answer; Eddie says nothing. Sonia had paved a path for Eddie — she’d dug his grave. The only job he’s had has been at the local grocery as a bag boy, but during finals he’d gotten so stressed from his mom’s declining health and the idea of not graduating because of it that he’d quit. He’s sure they’ll take him back, but even then, a bag-boy salary would never be enough to pay for the house and the loans and the bills and the— 

“I want to offer you a place at my cabin this summer.” 

Eddie almost drops his coupon book. 

“It’s right on the beach. Nice town, nice people. I go every year and there’s always an extra room.” Sucker punched by the offer, all Eddie can do is stare. The fish-mouth thing must be genetic, because Eddie’s sure he’s doing it right now. “You could stay a few months, save up some money. It’s touristy around there, and the summer money’s always good, as far as I know. And, you know, if you need more time, you can come back to Portland in September. With me. I mean, you could stay with me for as long as you need, I’ve got the extra space and—”

“I’ll think about it,” Eddie wheezes. “I’m late for my, uh… graduation.” 

Eddie has plenty of other time to figure out how to talk to his father without getting emotionally constipated, right? So he flees. He jumps in his car and ignores the heaviness in his lungs and he goes home.

Only it’s not home anymore, is it? Eddie stands in the entryway in his cap and gown and he knows that nothing and everything has changed. The walls are the same shade of eggshell they’ve always been, but they’re gray now. The floors still creak when he walks, but they’re silent now. The house still smells like lavender and potpourri, but it’s rotten now. People still live here, but they’re dead now;  _ she’s _ dead now. Eddie’s house is just a house without the fear Sonia filled it with to make it home.

Suddenly Eddie is furious. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair! All his life he’s played by Sonia’s rules, followed where she leads; all his life he’s dealt with the pills and the restrictive diet, all his life he’s dealt with the lies and the  _ don’t you love me Eddiebear _ ’s, all his life he’s dealt with the fucking placebos and the fucking bullshit, even when he knew, he fucking  _ knew _ she was lying to him, and for what? For her to die and leave him with nothing but a house full of ghosts and shackles he can’t unlock? 

Where does a puppet go when it’s strings are cut? How does it learn to dance on its own?

Eddie rips his cap off and flings it to the ground. Graduating college is the first thing Eddie’s done all by himself and it’s been ruined by  _ both _ of his dead parents. All he wants to do is scream; instead, he picks up the discarded cap and attempts to straighten out the corner where it’d jammed against the tile. All he wants to do is lay in bed and sleep for the next six weeks straight; instead, he microwaves soup for dinner. All he wants to do is lie and pretend like he’s fine, like it’s all fine, like his hands haven’t been shaking since he got the news.

Instead, he packs a bag.

* * *

“We’re almost there, bud.” 

Eddie catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly lifts his head away from the window, tugging his headphones out. “What? Sorry I—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you had—” 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Frank’s eyes don’t leave the road. Eddie watches as the dark hair on his knuckles jumps when he grips the wheel tighter.

“I was saying we’re almost there.” 

“Oh.” Eddie looks out his window, thinking there might be some indication that they’re getting closer, but all he sees are the same birch trees that’ve lined the road since they left Chamberlain: a line of tall, pale fingers, following him on both sides for two and a half hours. It’s like the wheels keep spinning but they haven’t actually gone anywhere. 

And then, all at once, the treeline breaks, and there’s sunlight again. Blocked before by incessant peeling trunks, Eddie has to flip his visor down so he’s not blinded by the afternoon brilliance. He’s squinting so hard he almost misses the giant, fading sign right before Frank flicks on his blinker to exit: even through the graffiti, it clearly reads  _ Welcome to Derry _ . “Oh, wow.” 

They pull off the exit ramp into a new world. The forest fades into the distance — still there, but encompassing rather than suffocating — and all Eddie can see is the endless expanse of blue, blue, blue. Immediately he wants to run to it, to let the crests of the waves push and pull at his knees; immediately, he is in love with the ocean. 

It must read clear on his face because Frank laughs, and then salty air fills the car. “Go on, stick your head out the window.” Eddie looks at Frank, unsure. “Go on!” 

So Eddie does. He sticks his head out the window and closes his eyes. Saltwater wind zips through his hair and fights the warmth of the sun on his cheeks; it swoops in through his t-shirt sleeve and collar, it slides down his spine and makes every hair on his torso stand up straight. When Eddie inhales, as deeply as he possibly can, it whirls around every bend of his lungs and fills him with a stinging sort of calm. He inhales again, and again, and again; he inhales until everything inside is fresh and new, until he’s exhaled every last breath of who he was before right now. 

Eddie drops back into his seat, still buzzing. For the first time since they’d left, Frank smiles. “Not too shabby, huh?” The ocean has replaced his voice with sea breeze, so Eddie just nods his head and smiles right back. 

They fall back into silence again, though it’s not awkward anymore. Not  _ as _ awkward, anyway; Eddie’s still wrapping and unwrapping the cord of his headphones around his fingers, but at least they aren’t actually plugged into anything. It’s just… What do you say to someone you haven’t spoken to in over eighteen years? If the years Eddie’s spent without his father were a person, they’d be old enough to vote and buy cigarettes. Sure, that isn’t necessarily Frank’s fault… but it’s still weird. 

Three weeks ago, Frank Kaspbrak showed up on the worst best day of Eddie’s life so far, and now here he is: buckled in the front seat on his way to spend three months with someone he’s known for less than one. Part of him wants to turn around and get out of here as fast as possible, to run as hard and fast as he can in the opposite direction. Eddie isn’t a runner, though; if he was, he’d have left years ago. 

“Need anything before we head to the house? You hungry? There’s a drive-thru around here if you—”

Eddie shakes his head before he completely realizes he’s doing it. Fast food was never allowed under Sonia’s fretting eyes —  _ too many risks, Eddiebear, too many risks _ — and he’s gotten so used to politely turning down anything but his own homemade dinners that he doesn’t even think about it anymore. Frank’s raising an eyebrow like he can hear the echoes of Eddie’s stomach grumbling, but Eddie shakes his head again anyways; too much trouble to change his answer now. 

Not wanting to sour the rest of the trip with uncomfortable silence, Eddie reaches out and hesitantly flips the radio on. Twangy guitar and heavy kick-drum drifts out the windows and Frank lights up immediately.

“Oh, hell yeah.” Eddie’s hand pulls back as Frank’s reaches to hitch the volume up a few notches. “I love this song!” 

Eddie’s almost sure he’s never heard this; it sounds  _ good _ , with a powerhouse of a vocalist, which means it definitely wasn’t a part of Sonia’s CD collection that consisted mainly of Josh Groban and other church-going-women favorites. 

“ _ Listen to the wind blow! Down comes the night!”  _

Frank’s voice joins the singer’s, a deep and slightly pitchy crooning full of passion. The sudden change in demeanor is so shocking that Eddie can’t even take the time to be confused; he just grins, wide and bright, as Frank bobs his head like a musically-inclined chicken. 

“C’mon, Eddie, sing along! Don’t you know the words?” Eddie shakes his head, and Frank scoffs. “Are you kidding me? You never heard of Fleetwood Mac?” 

He shakes his head again, smile fading an inch. “Ma never allowed rock to be played in the house.” 

“Oh.” Frank falters a bit, but neither of them let the bitter taste of her memory seep far enough into the moment to ruin it. “No time like the present, right?” Frank turns it up louder, and Eddie sticks his hand out the window as the music fills the space between them. 

> _ Run in the shadows _
> 
> _ Damn your love, _
> 
> _ Damn your lies _
> 
> _ Break the silence _
> 
> _ Damn the dark,  _
> 
> _ Damn the light. _

It’s not too long before the smell of the ocean gets stronger — salty, fishy, sandy, and fresh. The meager city’s restaurants and shops and, to Eddie’s surprise, fairly large waterpark, turn into rows of houses, which turn into one long string of cabin-like homes along the coast. Frank slows down as they pass some kids darting through the street on bright metal bikes, almost hitting one of them when they come shooting out from behind a parked car. 

“Watch it, moron!” Frank yells. The kid on the bike throws up the bird and calls out something Eddie thinks is  _ suck my massive wang!  _ before riding off into the bushes after the other two cycling teens. “Idiots.” 

Eddie covers his mouth to hide his laughter. 

Finally, they pull up to a quaint looking house towards the end of the street. It’s blue,  _ tacky _ blue, with seashells lining the door frame (and the stairs and the banister and the and the and the); there’s even a captain’s hat hanging on a hook beside the front door. It’s the kind of house that belongs to a retired sea captain who drinks wine coolers and makes aquatic puns when they’re left alone too long, not the kind of house that belonged to Eddie’s truck driving, windbreaker wearing father. 

But no, this must be the place, because Frank kills the engine and turns to Eddie with big, unmistakably excited eyes. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? I’ve spent ten years renovating and redecorating.” 

Perhaps it’s time to begin separating the real Frank Kaspbrak from the Frank Kaspbrak persona created in Eddie’s mind. 

“Go ahead and take a look around, I’ll bring the bags in. Go on!” 

Frank’s out of the car before Eddie can respond, but it doesn’t take long for him to unbuckle, wrench open the heavy door, and crack every joint in his legs as he stands, stretching on the wispy grass.

“The view around back is great. You can walk straight to the ocean.” Frank motions with his elbow, arms too full of baggage. Eddie wants to help, even starts to walk towards Frank instead of the back of the house, but Frank shakes his head. “No. I got this. Go. And take your shoes off! Live the beach life!” 

Somehow, Eddie is going to have to accept his father is a fifty-something beach bum. For now, he slips out of his shoes, tucks his socks in the soles, and gives Frank an awkward wave before setting off around the corner. 

The distance between Frank’s house and the neighbors is smaller than Eddie would’ve thought, only maybe ten or so feet. The sun doesn’t quite peek through the space, and it’s significantly cooler here in the shade, grass a little damp. A little dark, too, even though it’s barely half past noon, and Eddie doesn’t see the snail shell until it’s crunching beneath his skin. 

“Oh, shit. Fuck!” Eddie crouches down immediately to inspect his foot, now covered with snail goo and broken shell. “Shit. Fuck.” He gags a little. It’s not pretty. He does, however, manage to swipe all the gunk from his skin and, after some more gagging, wipe that gunk on the grass. “Sorry, lil guy,” Eddie mumbles. It’s a quick ceremony, and the second funeral Eddie’s been to this month.

Down here, face to face with the small garden that lines the side of the house, Eddie discovers something fantastical. Hundreds of snails — well. Okay. Not hundreds of snails, but a lot. Twenty, at least. Twenty or so snails, crawling over the giant leaves and sliding (sliming?) over the small rocks that surrounded the perimeter. It’s a snail colony. 

_ Snolony _ , Eddie thinks, and then frowns so he won’t smile at his own stupid joke.

“Did you kill one?” 

Eddie’s not proud of the surprised squeak that comes out of him, but he’s more disappointed when he accidentally brings his hand down and hears another distinctive crunch. 

“Dude! Another one?!” It’s the kid on the bike from earlier, Eddie realizes: a girl, whose voice has gone up two octaves now. “You’re a snail murderer!”

“I am not a snail murde — stop  _ yelling _ !” Eddie looks around, hoping her cries haven’t attracted the attention of his father. “It was an accident! I’m sorry!” 

The girl, tall and willowy but too young-looking to be any older than 16 (though Eddie himself has a baby face so he can’t judge too quickly) puts her hands on her hips. The Bermuda shorts she’s wearing are a frankly offensive shade of neon pink, and she’s barefoot. “You killed two snails! One more and you could be legally classified as a serial killer!” 

Eddie wipes his hand against the grass and then stands, stepping quickly (and carefully) away from the snolony and towards the girl, who shakes her head even as he protests. “It’s not murder if it’s an accident! I said I was sorry!” 

“Those snails were someone’s friend. They were someone’s  _ support system _ . And you crushed them.” She clicks her tongue. Eddie feels genuinely horrible for his crimes. “I hope you understand what this means to the snail community and I hope you repent for the sins you’ve —”

“Ellie! Wuh-what the fuck? Why’re you b-bothering this guy?” The space between the houses is suddenly quite popular; a guy who looks to be about Eddie’s age treads,  _ also _ barefoot, across the grass. He doesn’t even have to look down to avoid the patch of snails. He looks nothing like Ellie — he’s missing the mess of black curls — but he clearly lives next door, or at least close-by. “Are they bothering you?” 

Eddie shakes his head. “I stepped on some snails. She was reading me my rights.” 

Ellie squints at him. “You’ve never been here before. Why are you here?” 

The guy huffs. “Ellie, c-cut it out. Where’s your b-brother?”

“SuperFreeze opened for the season today.” 

“Okay,” the guy says, nodding like that checks out. “And where’s my b-brother?”

Ellie’s face doesn’t even twitch. “SuperFreeze opened for the season today.”

“Why aren’t  _ you _ at SuperFreeze?” He crosses his arms, and Ellie crosses hers. Eddie watches from a few feet away, wondering if his hands are sweating or if it’s leftover snail juices. “Did Toni not wanna go to SuperFreeze?”

Ellie flushes. “Toni had to go home.  _ Mike _ picked her up.” 

Now it’s this guy’s turn to go red. “Muh-Mike was here?”

“Yeah,  _ was _ .”

“None of thuh-this answers why you’re in my yard.” 

Instead of giving a proper answer, Ellie points directly at Eddie. Eddie, so caught up in watching these two people talk, forgot he was even here. 

“Duh-don’t point, Ellie, it’s rude—”

“New guy.”

“Go home, Ellie.”

She frowns. After a moment she says “I’m going to SuperFreeze,” and then she’s gone, storming off towards the street where her bike is thrown against the ground.

“Tell Juh-Georgie it’s his turn to tuh-take out the trash tonight!” The guy calls, and Eddie just barely hears Ellie’s reply of  _ suck my wang, Denbrough!  _ “Sorry ab-bout them. New people aren’t very c-common.”

“I don’t mind,” Eddie says, despite the weight of two snail deaths forever on his conscience. “She seems… interesting.”

“They,” the guy corrects. Eddie’s brows pull together.

“Huh?”

“Not sh-she. They.” 

Eddie turns crimson, immediately wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know —”

“Duh-don’t worry,” he says, smiling warmly. “You do now. They’ll t-tell you about it when yuh-you’ve earned their trust.” 

Day 0 at Camp Kaspbrak and Eddie’s already committed two murders and been entrusted to befriend a loud teenager. This summer is shaping up to be something completely new, isn’t it?

“I’m Eddie,” he says, ignoring how his nerves push his heart into his throat. “My father is — he lives there.” Eddie points at the big blue monstrosity behind him and the guy’s eyebrows shoot into his auburn hairline. 

“Frank has a k-kid? You’re F-Funky Frank’s  _ kid _ ?” 

_ Funky Frank _ gets thrown in a brain bin marked ‘never open’ and kicked closed. He nods, though. “Yeah. It surprised me too.” 

The guy laughs, and Eddie cracks a small smile too. 

“Oh! I’m B-Bill. I live there.” He mirrors Eddie’s motion and points to the much more subtle green colored house next door. “My muh-mom’s at work right now, and my b-brother is, as yuh-you heard, at —”

“At SuperFreeze,” Eddie finishes, and Bill grins. 

“You ever h-have SuperFreeze?” 

“I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes,” Eddie says, and Bill nods solemnly. 

“Suh-SuperFreeze changes you as a p-person,” Bill says. Eddie believes him, but he also thinks any ice cream would probably change him as a person. He hasn’t had it since he was seven years old — the year he suddenly developed a dairy allergy. Bill tilts his head, like he’s considering something. He looks over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Eddie. “If yuh-you wanted to go, I c-could take you. It’s a t-ten minute bike ride, m-max.” 

Eddie blinks a few times. “Oh, I don’t — I don’t have a bike.” 

That’s the honest truth. Frank might have one tucked away somewhere, but Eddie’s been in town less than twenty minutes and on the property less than ten, so he wouldn’t have any idea where to find it. Plus, he’s not sure arriving at the camp and then immediately leaving again is a very good start to the coming summer. 

Bill nods, looking completely understanding. “SuperFreeze is a b-big commitment anyways. B-better to make a day of it.” 

Eddie’s chest is swathed in relief. Saying no to the first (and potentially only, past Ellie and the snolony he’s slowly murdering) person he’s likely to befriend could’ve been the end of any social life he could hope to have. Not that it’d be the end of the world, really; Eddie’s gotten pretty good at being his own best friend. 

Jesus, that’s fucking lonely. 

“Welcome to D-Derry, Eddie,” Bill says, and then waves before making his way towards his own pile of bike in the front yard. “Watch out for the s-snails!” 

Yeah, like Eddie needs another warning. He stares diligently at the ground until his feet start to hit sand. All of sudden he’s at the edge of the country. The edge of the world, possibly. Eddie keeps walking, until the soft sand starts packing tighter, gets more solid and easier to walk on. There’s no snails to worry about here, but Eddie keeps watch for shells and sneaky crabs anyway. Does this beach have crabs? All beaches have crabs, right? Eddie studied finance, not beaches. 

He stops where the sand turns wet. Here, the waves don’t quite touch his skin. He inches forward, just until the tide washes up over the tips of his toes. It’s electric, a finger in a light socket. The ocean doesn’t have walls; the ocean is freedom. Eddie takes a big step forward. The sand gives slightly under his foot, and the water calls him forward.

Eddie walks until the water — the still too cold May water — sits at his knees like a doorway tape measure. Sonia never let Eddie mark up the walls like that, though. He found out his height at the doctor’s appointments instead. He stopped asking when he stopped growing vertically at seventeen. 

_ Oh yeah, 5’6 is totally normal for a guy your age _ , the doctor had said. Eddie’s doctor is a horrible liar. 

He’s shivering already, and the ocean pushes and pulls with a stronger hand than Eddie expected. He wobbles on the uneven (and, to his dismay, slightly slimy) ocean floor. Land locked in Chamberlain his whole life, and now he has both feet pressed to the ocean floor. All it took was his mom dying.

_ Stop it. Stop ruining it.  _ Eddie squeezes his eyes closed until he can’t tell the difference between the sun and the bright spots on his eyelids.  _ You have your feet in the ocean. You have your feet in the fucking ocean. Stop thinking about your dead mom.  _

Amazingly, he does. Eddie stops thinking about his dead mom; he stops thinking altogether. Instead, he stands there with his face to the sun and his feet in the ocean and he lets the waves chase away the ghosts for a little while.

* * *

By the time Eddie drags himself out of the water, he’s got goosebumps from his shoulders to his ankles. It’s fucking cold in the water; it’ll heat up as the summer kicks into gear, but until then, Eddie’s gonna stick to walking the sand. 

The truck is all closed up and parked neatly when Eddie gets back up to the front of the house. For a nice day like this, it feels too quiet. Ellie and Bill took the ambient noises with them, apparently. Eddie grabs his shoes and climbs the crooked wooden stairs, admiring the different seashells as he ascends. It really is quite the collection. Before he pulls open the screen door, Eddie pauses to read the embroidery on the captain’s hat.

_ Captain Funky Frank. _

Good. So Funky Frank is like, a real actual nickname for his real actual father. Okay. 

The inside of the house has been shown just as much love as, if not more than, the outside. With a much more muted blue color on the walls, it’s definitely easier on the eyes. The nautical theme carries in with the anchor shaped coat hooks and the life jacket coasters on the small coffee table in the living room just past the entryway. Eddie decides he absolutely loves it.

Just as he’s about to call out, he hears hushed sounds from where the kitchen is. At least, he assumes it’s the kitchen — the pleasant smell of food cooking wafts in from the same direction as the voices. Voices, plural. Eddie takes quiet steps across the soft brown carpet and, while he’s not proud of it, listens.

“I just wish you had talked to me about this.” A woman’s voice, older probably. That meant the other was his father, unless there are two strangers in the kitchen right now. 

“We did talk about it, honey. I told you he needed a place to stay and —”

“But I told you I didn’t feel comfortable having your son from another woman around the house, Frankie,” the voice simpers. Eddie’s blood, finally warming back up from his jaunt through the waves, drops back to freezing. “I wish you would take my feelings into account for— for once.”

It sounds like the woman’s sniffling now. Eddie’s lungs begin to inch their way into his throat. 

“Susan, please don’t cry. C’mon Suzie-Q, don’t —” 

There’s the sound of a chair shifting across tile, and then the sniffles are more muted. Eddie misses her reply and part of Frank’s, too. 

“ — know it’s hard. But he’s got know where to go, and he’s my son. He didn’t have a very good mother, and —” more muffled words “No, I know it’s not your fault, but —” 

There’s more whispering, and then the voice rings clear again, like she’s turned away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m being so crazy right now.” 

Eddie, never having met this woman and never needing to, agrees. 

“I’ll just have to get used to it right? He’s already here. Nothing I can do about it now.”

“Suzie—”

Footsteps. Headed directly towards Eddie.

“No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I understand where you lie on this matter; I understand where I fall now.” 

Eddie barely has any time to back up before a tall woman in ugly yoga pants comes barrelling through the doorway and nearly right through him. 

“Oh!” She jumps back, eyes wide. “Oh my God!” 

“Sorry,” Eddie says flatly. His lungs push further into his throat. Something is very, very not right about this woman, and it’s very, very familiar. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Quite alright,” she says, sounding the opposite of quite alright. “You must be Eddie, yes?”

“Eddie!” Frank’s head pops out between the door frame and the woman’s shoulders, cheesy grin unmistakably bright. “How’s the water?”

“Cold,” he says, and Frank laughs.

“Sure is. Just wait until June comes around — you won’t want to leave!” 

“You should leave, though,” the woman says, patting Frank’s head. Eddie’s frown turns down even further. “Being out in the sun too long leads directly to skin cancer. You’ve had enough scares as it is, Frankie.” 

Somehow, Frankie is worse than Funky Frank by a landslide. 

“I suppose you’re right, Suzie-Q,” Frank agrees, though he’s smiling pleasantly and even kisses the side of her head. Eddie really, really doesn’t like where this is going. “Oh! Introductions! Suzie, this is Eddie, my son. Eddie, this is Suzie —”

“It’s Susan.”

“This is Susan,” Frank corrects, and slides his arm around her shoulders. “My fiancé.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on GOD reddie will interact next chapter


	2. snurder and other crimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Eddie moves in, it rains for five days straight.  
>   
> “You’re going to let a little rain stop you from having fun?” Frank asks on day one, soaked from head to sandled toe after walking to the grocery to get milk. His arms are covered in goosebumps. Frank sniffles; Eddie pales.  
>   
> “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u east and sweetie for the beta and to everyone who still actually reads my work post-shark puppy i respect u all like crazy

After Eddie moves in, it rains for five days straight.

“You’re going to let a little rain stop you from having fun?” Frank asks on day one, soaked from head to sandled toe after walking to the Stop N’ Shop to get milk. His arms are covered in goosebumps. Frank sniffles; Eddie pales.

“Yes.” 

Frank leaves him alone after that; partly because Eddie locks himself up in his room, and partly because ‘preparations for the party boat’ have begun, whatever that means. Regardless, Frank starts working, and Eddie starts pretending the rain droplets on his window are racing. 

On day two, Eddie reads all six (6) of the books on the rickety bookshelf in the corner. Well, he reads five of them; the Bible he puts on the bottom shelf so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. It kills the day fine, and now he knows just about everything about different boat types and knotting techniques there is to know. (He only falls asleep mid-book once. Or twice.) Frank makes dinner, which is nice, but Susan is there, which is not nice. Eddie watches her feed Frank a forkful of green beans and then politely excuses himself. 

On day three, Eddie physically, mentally, and emotionally dies of boredom. He puts his face in his pillow and screams, and then he gets up to explore every inch of this house — even if it means having to talk to Susan. 

He starts with the guest room — _his_ room now, he supposes. It’s not very big, but Eddie doesn’t take up a lot of space anyway. Despite the size, it’s still packed wall-to-wall with nautical knick-knacks and sea-faring memorabilia. Even the furniture in the room looks like it could’ve washed up on the beach, from the fishnet draped across the top of the bookcase to the deep blue comforter laid over his freshly made bed. It’s like living on the front of one of those design magazines, except there are little hermit crab shells with cartoon faces sitting on his nightstand. 

The dresser is made of lightweight, soft wood that matches the old bookcase and the frame of his bed. All the drawers are empty, save for the clothes he’s stocked the top two with, but he does find an ancient looking green marble that he pockets. Eddie doesn’t know anything about furniture, or wood, or decorating, really, but he thinks it looks handmade. There’s even a small, hand carved logo on the side of it; a simple anchor bookended by the letters G and H. When he checks the bookcase and the bedframe, he’s not surprised to find the same logo on both. Eddie runs his thumb across the indentation, idly wondering how many hours it’d take to craft something like this. The only hobby he ever really had growing up was taking his pills and assuring his mother he’d never leave her; making furniture seemed a lot more fun.

Venturing out of his room, Eddie finds even more G&H furniture. The medicine cabinet above the sink in the bathroom across the hall (fully stocked with first aid necessities, Eddie is relieved to find) bears the symbol, as does all the furniture in the living room and even the small dining table in the kitchen. Eddie’s not going to risk a look at his father’s room, but he’s just about certain he’d find more G&H originals in there as well. He also finds a few more marbles, for whatever reason, a ticket stub too faded to tell which movie it was for, and an old flyer for some place called Water Circus abandoned under the fridge. Little pieces of forgotten history, tucked away in corners unreachable by vacuum or Swiffers — corners that haven’t been explored since, judging by the poster beneath the fridge, the 1980’s. 

There’s no forgotten history inside the fridge, but Eddie opens it anyways because he’s starving. Rows of brownish green shakes stare back at him, intercut by bagged greens and cheese sticks. The apples in the bottom drawer are stacked by color, and the condiments in the door are grouped by flavor. It’s more organized than the medicine cabinet (which is alphabetized) and eerily similar to the way his mother keeps the fridge back in Chamberlain. 

_Kept_. 

“The point of a fridge is to keep the things inside from going bad, not to cool down the rest of the house.” 

Mustard bottles rattle gently as Eddie closes the door. Susan, it seems, is back from her morning yoga class. 

“Sorry,” Eddie says, and when he turns around Susan is giving him a look that makes his stomach go queasy. She’s smiling, but her eyes aren’t quite with it. It’s like… it’s like she’s studying him. “I was just looking for something to—”

“Help yourself to anything in there. Unless it’s labeled, of course; that’s Frank’s food.” 

“Of course,” Eddie nods. He tries to return her smile, but it gets caught halfway between awkward and uncomfortable. Susan stares — _studies_ — before turning to leave again. Eddie’s goosebumps don’t fade until he hears water fill the pipes as the shower switches on upstairs.

Eddie “sleeps” through dinner that night, and later, he “sleeps” through his door gently opening; he “sleeps” through the soft light pouring in over his face from the hallway, and he “sleeps” through it gently closing again. He also “sleeps” through hearing Susan tell Frank he shouldn’t worry so much, and then he “sleeps” through Susan reminding Frank to take his vitamins before bed. 

When he actually does manage to fall asleep, crashing waves of multicolored pills and long, sharp fingernails fill his nightmares.

Eddie wouldn’t say that he spends day four of being rained-in hiding in his room, but he definitely spends it hiding in his room. 

By day five he’s filled with a buzzing, pent-up energy that won’t leave him alone. He’s read all the books, he’s listened to the four albums on his iPod at least six times each, and he’s pretty sure if he closed his eyes he could draw every detail of his room by memory alone. Plus, he hasn’t seen a human being outside of Frank or Susan in what feels like forever. Eddie sighs. Outside, gray skies weep without any sign of relief on the horizon.

Screw this. He’s going out — even if it means risking a cold. All he needs now is a rain jacket.

Only one stone lay unturned after his day two explorations, and that’s the front hall closet. He’d been too thrown off by Susan’s uneasy eyes that he’d forgotten it existed at all. Eddie’s hoping now that his search this time will yield more treasure than some cracked marbles. 

Sure enough, he finds one. Amongst the crisp white coats and the dainty floral jackets, an old green rain slicker hangs like a beacon of hope in the dark skies. Pulling it out, however, he finds the words _FUNKY FRANK_ printed boldly on the back. Carefully, he slips it back onto the hanger it came from. Then, tucked all the way on the farthest end of the metal rod full of coats, he finds it: a rain jacket, bright red, with a pair of matching spotted boots standing upright on the ground below it. There’s dust on the shoulders and on the tips of the boots, which ends up making Eddie feel a little better about borrowing it without permission. At least no one is actively using it, right? 

It hangs loose on his small frame, too big for him by at least a size and a half, but the hood sits right on his head and the boots fit comfortably so he takes a deep breath and opens the front door to brave the storm. 

Despite the steady drizzle drum-rolling against the pavement, the neighborhood is filled with activity. Across the street, a woman takes a long drag of her cigarette from the steps of her porch; joggers stand on the side of the road laughing and catching up, their dogs idly sniffing each other; a car rolls by, soft rock drifting from the open windows and then slowly fading away. Business as usual, it seems. Eddie, on the other hand, shivers, and immediately considers going back inside. 

_No splashing, Eddiebear. Straight inside, now — you’ll catch a cold if you’re out too long. You don’t want to get sick, do you? That’s my sweet boy; you can play inside with Mommy._

Mud splatters onto the bottom of the bright red coat as Eddie jumps off the last step. He swears that, for a moment, he’s flying. 

Everything looks the same as it did a few days ago outside, just wetter, but after four days of hearing Susan loudly meditate downstairs, he’s not complaining. Around the side of the house, though, something has changed — namely the amount of snails. They’ve doubled in numbers, maybe even tripled. He approaches slowly, staring at the ground so as not to commit any more accidental, uh, _snurders_ , and he watches the dozens of snails inch across the rocks and leaves. They’re kind of gross if he looks at them too long, what with their antennae things and slimy bodies, but Eddie thinks they’re also kind of… oddly cute. He finds himself reaching out to pick one up, ignoring the cold droplets against his fingers, but pauses before he gets too close. Maybe he shouldn’t disturb them — they’re just trying to go about their day, right? An anxious, fluttering voice in the back of his head tells him not to touch, that they might have some kind of exotic snail disease, but Eddie knows that’s stupid so he pushes the thought back where it came from. 

“Ch-choosing your next victim?” 

Eddie startles but he manages not to crush any shells as he scrambles to stand up. Behind him is Bill, a little smile on his face. He, like most of the people Eddie’s seen outside so far, doesn’t seem bothered by the rain; he’s wearing a jacket, at least, blue and green blocks of color hanging off his thin arms, but the guy’s also wearing cargo shorts and rubber slide on shoes. Eddie shivers _for_ him.

“What? No! I—” Eddie takes another careful step away. “I was just looking.”

“Duh-don’t worry, I’m just m-messing with you.” Bill grins now, and Eddie finds it in him to smile shyly back. “I know you’re not a suh-snail murderer.”

“So there’s not a warrant out for my arrest?” 

Bill laughs at that. “Ellie m-might still have one, but yuh-you’re safe with me.” 

Eddie looks down at the snails again, watches them slowly inch along without a care. Do snails have thoughts? Or… brains at all? Suddenly, desperately, Eddie is overcome with the need to know if snails feel pain; two innocent souls weigh on his conscience. He doesn’t ask Bill, but only because Bill speaks first.

“Suh-so.” Eddie’s attention snaps back to Bill, who’s still wearing that open, genuine expression. It’s the kind of expression that makes something inside Eddie want to tell him every secret he’s ever had; comfort and warmth in pools of blue eyes. Eddie’s not good at making friends, but Bill makes it seem easier. “Have you gone to Suh-SuperFreeze yet?”

Eddie shakes his head. He hasn’t even gone past the edge of this yard yet. 

“I’m meeting some fuh-friends there soon. Wanna c-come?”

Beneath red plastic and cloth, Eddie’s heart lifts. The “yes please” spills out before his brain can fully catch up, but his face drops when he remembers his lack of transportation. “Oh. But I can’t.” Bill’s face pulls into something questioning, and Eddie shrugs. “No bike.”

Disappointment flashes across Bill’s eyes, but in the same second they fill with light. “C’mon. You can buh-borrow Georgie’s bike.” 

“Oh, that’s okay, I don’t want to intrude—”

“He’s not g-going anywhere anyway. T-Toni and Ellie are over making him wuh-watch Shrek again.” Bill’s already walking away, up toward the end of his driveway where a pile of bikes sits like a lawn decoration. Apparently catching on to the fact Eddie’s still standing between the houses, he turns over his shoulder. “It’s f-fine! I swuh-swear!” 

Eddie takes approximately .2 seconds to decide a new friend and a milkshake are worth way more than staying home to avoid whatever illness he could get from riding a bike through the rain.

Inside, deep down, Sonia’s nagging voice tries to surface. Eddie makes sure to step in every puddle on his way to catch up with Bill. 

* * *

It’s a short ride, like Bill said before, but it definitely takes longer than ten minutes; Eddie hasn’t ridden a bike since Sonia was forced to hand over the keys so Eddie could commute, and the big red boots make it difficult to pedal. Bill doesn’t seem to have an issue with taking it slow, though, which Eddie is grateful for, and by the time they roll up to Superfreeze, Eddie’s gotten the whole bike-riding-with-boots-on thing down. 

“Are yuh-you okay?” Bill asks, taking his shoes from his pockets and sliding them back on. Why is everyone so obsessed with being barefoot in this town?

Eddie tries to hide his wheeze and nods; that hill had seemed way smaller from the passenger seat of Frank’s truck. “Yep! All good.”

The outside of SuperFreeze sticks out like a sore thumb from the rest of the small town; where everything else is a beachy, seaside getaway, SuperFreeze is an igloo on steroids. The building itself looks normal enough, but the walls have been painted with murals of penguins playing hockey, polar bears ice skating, and walruses sharing milkshakes. A giant, neon slushie hangs above two sliding windows where tired-looking teenagers frantically take down the orders from the customers brave enough to wait in line. The rain is more of a drizzle at this point, Eddie notes, but the customers near the front are soaked, so he’s sure they’ve been waiting awhile. 

“Don’t wuh-worry,” Bill says beside him. “They’ve got a d-dining room.” 

The inside is nowhere near as bright as the outside; in fact, it looks like a normal diner. There’s a big, blow-up penguin holding a sundae in the corner, but other than that it’s just blue, vinyl-covered booths lining the walls, most filled with damp-looking parents and kids with ice cream covering half their face. It’s warm and it smells like french fries and Eddie’s finding that, so far, there’s no place in this town he doesn’t love. 

“Ayo, Billiam!” Far in the corner, in a booth overflowing with bodies, someone calls over the quiet din of the restaurant. “Bring that cute ass over here!” 

There’s a muffled yelp followed by _there’s kids here, dickhole,_ and beside him, Bill sighs. 

“S-sorry in advance.” 

Eddie’s only slightly terrified. It’s fine. 

“Who’s your friend, Denbrough?” It takes a second for Eddie to pinpoint which of the five people stuffed into the booth speaks up — they’re all studying him, which sends a crimson color across his cheekbones immediately — but the voice seemed to come from the redhead in the corner. Her hair’s cropped short and stylish, tiny half-curls framing her elvish face. When she smiles at him her nose flairs and a tiny diamond stud glints in the fluorescent lighting. Even with the lack of space at the table, she’s got her legs and her feet splayed over the laps of the two guys on her side of the booth; she commands the space with ease. “He’s cute.” 

“This is Eddie. I t-told you guys — he’s the one living next d-door.” 

“Shit, _you’re_ Funky Frank’s kid?” Blue eyes, the bluest Eddie’s ever seen, maybe, stare through lenses the size of chapter books. 

Eddie looks awkwardly over at Bill, who gives him two supportive thumbs up. “Oh, uh, yep. That’s me. Funky… Funky Frank’s kid.” 

“Fuck. You know what this means, guys?” The table collectively shakes their heads, and Blue Eyes leans in seriously. “It means Funky Frank has had sex. _Confirmed_.”

A chorus of _boo_ s and _shut up Richie_ s follow immediately, and the redhead in the corner speaks over the noise. 

“Sorry about him. We brought him back from the pound and he’s still not potty-mouth trained.” There’s a thump from beneath the table, and Blue Eyes — Richie — gives a startled squawk. The girl smiles sweetly at Eddie. 

“I’m Bev. Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Eddie says. 

Beside her, a guy with biceps the size of Eddie’s head and the cheeks round enough to rival a chipmunk’s speaks up. “Ben.” Ben waves with a hand about as big as a baseball glove; Eddie waves back.

The guy beside Ben offers out his hand to Eddie, who shakes it politely. “I’m Mike. Mike Hanlon.” Mike’s got a firm grip, which matches his strong build and strong jaw and generally strong physique. Beside him, Bill turns pink, and Eddie faintly remembers the exchange between him and Ellie the other day. “You from Portland too?” 

“Chamberlain, actually.”

Mike nods, but his eyebrows tug together. “Huh. Never heard of it.” 

“Yeah, it’s uh. It’s pretty small.” 

Across from Bev, a smartly dressed man with pointed features and soft eyes waves politely. “Stanley. Pleasure to meet you.” The words are barely out of his mouth when Richie starts up again.

“I, of course,” Richie says, pulling himself from the booth to stand, “am Richie Tozier.” 

Richie’s tall. Very tall. Eddie’s been sentenced to a lifetime of being in the front row of group pictures, so pretty much everyone is tall to him, but Richie is Tall tall. Gangly, too, with broad shoulders and long fingers that reach up to push a handful of dark curls out of his eyes. He’s got freckles on his nose, like Eddie does, but they’re lighter and don’t spread across his cheeks the same. In a way that Eddie can’t quite place, Richie looks familiar, but he’s certain they’ve never met before. A grin, lopsided and toothy, spreads across Richie’s face when Eddie’s eyes meet his again.

Eddie hates him immediately. 

“Sit down, Richie,” Stanley sighs. “You’re scaring him.” 

Richie sits, but his eyes don’t leave Eddie’s. It’s unnerving; Eddie looks at the floor.

“Did you guh-guys order?” Bill asks, and Ben nods.

“Yeah, like five minutes ago. If you tell Audra now she can probably still get you on our tab.” 

“C-cool. You c-coming Eddie?” 

At the counter, Eddie feels like he can breathe again. The french fry smell is stronger here, which is probably part of it, but there’s less eyes on him too. Meeting so many people at once after talking to nobody but Frank and Susan for a week was overwhelming, to say the least. 

“Suh-sorry about Richie,” Bill says, but he’s smiling when Eddie looks at him. 

“What? Oh, it’s fine. He’s fine. I don’t — it’s fine.” Eddie shrugs. Over Bill’s shoulder, he can see Richie attempting to balance one of the salt shakers on his nose. “Is he always…?”

Bill turns to see what Eddie’s looking at, and when he turns back, he nods. “Richie’s juh-just like that. It’s why we luh-love him.” 

Eddie hums. The salt shaker falls from Richie’s nose and goes spilling all over Stanley, who lunges for Richie’s neck. “How has he not been murdered yet?”

Across the counter, a waitress snorts. “Good question. Many have tried.”

“H-hey, Audra.”

“Hiya, Bill. You want your usual?” 

“Yes p-please. But no chicken f-fingers, just the f-fries and sundae.”

“You got it, cutie.” Audra’s smile moves to Eddie. “And what about you, stranger?”

Belatedly, Eddie realizes he has no idea what to get. Fifteen years without ice cream and suddenly Eddie’s forgotten every flavor on the planet. Vanilla is probably safe, and he remembers liking strawberry, so he could probably just order one of those and be fine, but… But breaking fifteen years without ice cream doesn’t seem like a vanilla or a strawberry or even a chocolate kind of occasion. 

“Surprise me,” he says eventually, which makes Audra grin. 

“Coming right up. You want it at the table back there?”

“Yes p-please,” Bill says, and slides off the barstool. “Thanks, Audra.”

“Anything for you, Bill!” Audra winks before disappearing into the kitchen, and Eddie lifts an eyebrow as he follows Bill back to the table.

“I think she’s flirting with you.” 

“Wh-what? No she’s not.” Bill scoffs. “I’ve known her for yuh-years. Trust me; she’s just nice.” 

Eddie’s only known her for three minutes so he doesn’t push it, but he’s seen enough of Sonia’s daytime soap operas to know obvious flirting when he sees it. 

Back at the table they’ve pulled up a chair to the end of the booth. Bill snags it and immediately launches into conversation with Mike, leaving Eddie to slide into the only free seat in the booth: the one beside Richie. 

Great.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite, you can sit there.” Bev motions towards the empty seat, and Eddie lowers himself into the booth hesitantly. 

“Not unless you want me to, of course,” Richie adds. Eddie’s positive he’s as red as his jacket by now, but he chokes it down. 

His saving grace comes in the form of Stanley, who flicks Richie’s arm before leaning forward in order to catch Eddie’s eyes. “Are you here for the whole summer, Eddie?”

“I think that’s the plan.” If he survives that long anyway. “Frank said — my father said I’m welcome until the season ends.” 

“I still can’t believe your dad is Frank Kaspbrak,” Mike says. Eddie shifts uncomfortably, the _me neither_ stuck in his throat. Mike notices, because he immediately backtracks. “It’s such a small town; everybody knows everything about everybody. And Funky Frank is…” Mike trails off, searching for an appropriate descriptor. 

“A celebrity? An icon for the people?” Richie’s voice changes slightly and wiggles his fingers as he gives the table jazz hands. “A superstar?”

Mike rolls his eyes, but he also nods. “Yeah, basically.”

“A celebrity?” Eddie repeats. It has to be a mistake. _His_ father? Frank Kaspbrak? A _celebrity_?

“Everybody knows Funky Frank,” Ben says. “He’s the top rated captain for Tozier Tours.” 

Tozier Tours. Like, _Richie_ Tozier, Tozier Tours? Eddie eyes the boy beside him.

“Hey hey hey,” Richie interrupts. “That’s Whacky Went erasure, Benny Boy.” 

“True. Can’t Have Funky Frank without Whacky Went,” Bev agrees. “That’s like... pancakes without syrup.”

“Pools without lifeguards,” Stan adds.

“Muh-Macaroni without cheese,” Bill continues. 

“Bill without cargo shorts,” Richie says, and everyone — including Bill — laughs. Eddie laughs too, even if he’s desperately confused about the secret celebrityhood of his father and whoever Whacky Went is. 

Bev catches on to Eddie’s lost look, because she, thankfully, explains. “The tour boat company your dad works for — he and Went are co-captains. Whacky Went and Funky Frank’s Great Adventure is the top selling tour every week. It’s one of the biggest selling points of Derry, honestly.” 

“That and Water Circus,” Ben says. As though on cue, everyone groans, and Eddie’s left confused once again. He knows the name Water Circus; after staring at the flyer for three days, he’s even got the address memorized. What he _doesn’t_ know is why the mere mention of it acts like a knock-out to the whole table.

“Stop. Don’t talk about it,” Stan puts his hand up as though it’ll retract the words Ben has already said. “It’s our last day of freedom — let me have this.” 

“What’s so bad about the waterpark?” Eddie asks. 

“Waterparks are significantly less fun when you work there.” Mike shakes his head. “So many screaming kids…” 

“The smell of chlorine becomes a part of you.” Stan shudders. “Forever.”

“Wuh-well _I’m_ excited.” Bill crosses his arms over his chest, and then his eyes go a little dreamy. “Snack Shack corn duh-dogs are the best part of the suh-summer.” 

Richie starts to say some innuendo about Bill and his corn dogs, but Audra appears with two trays stacked with food and ice cream and the table is saved. 

“Double bacon burger with a strawberry shake, mango sorbet with cherry drizzle, two scoops of chocolate chip in a dish with an extra long spoon, one large root beer with a flavor of the day — you lucked out today, Bev, it’s Peach Jam this time instead of Chicken Wing — a birthday cake supreme with extra fudge, twice salted fries and a hot fudge sundae with extra sprinkles and—” Audra breathes, finally, before setting the last dish on the table. “A small bowl of fudgy chocolate. Oh! Wait!” 

Eddie watches with wide eyes as Audra sticks something into the center of his ice cream and then, to his horror, lights it on fire. With a small explosion of light, Eddie’s ice cream becomes a fourth of July celebration and sparks dance and fizzle down the tiny firework. Bev claps, and the rest of the table oo’s and ahh’s. 

“That a good enough surprise?” Audra looks so proud of herself that Eddie couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to, though — he doesn’t know what he wanted before, but she still got it perfectly. 

“Thanks, Audra,” Eddie says, and returns her bright grin.

“Don’t tell my boss I did that — we’re supposed to save them for the 12 Layer Fun-Dae challenge.” 

“I won’t,” he promises.

“Can I get you all anything else?” 

The silence of six mouths full of food is answer enough, and Audra hurries away to help another table. Eddie watches his sparkler burn all the way down. Even then, with the remains of the firework set to the side, Eddie pokes at the ice cream with his spoon hesitantly. 

“This may be hard to believe,” Richie says beside him, fudge already somehow smeared across his cheek. “But ice cream actually tastes better than it looks.” 

Eddie’s eyes widen sarcastically. “Really? I’ve gotta try this for myself.” 

Stan snorts into his ice cream, and Eddie bites his cheek to hide his own smile when Richie’s eyebrows raise. He tries not to notice how Richie tracks Eddie spoon from the bowl to his mouth; the attention from everyone is already a weight on his lungs, but Richie’s seemingly constant gaze feels like being stuck on a spinning teacup ride. 

The ice cream is good. Probably. Actually, all it tastes like is flakes of ash and sparkler — Eddie chokes down the spoonful anyway, silently hoping that whatever he’s just ingested is safe. Beside him, Richie snickers. 

“S’It good?” 

“Mhm.”

“Looks like you’re really enjoying it.” 

“I am.” Eddie swipes a napkin from the center of the table and carefully wipes the corners of his mouth. “It’s delicious.”

“Tastes like ash, doesn’t it?” 

Eddie doesn’t answer. Richie laughs again. 

“Here.” He tilts his cone towards Eddie. “Try my birthday cake.” 

There’s more chocolate on Richie’s face now, but either he doesn’t notice or, more likely, doesn’t care. Eddie blinks. He’s still trying to wrap his mind around this near-stranger offering for Eddie to just… lick his ice cream cone. 

“I— it’s covered in your germs!”

“So?”

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes and opens and closes and he realizes he’s doing that stupid fish face Frank always makes so he clamps his mouth shut again. The thing is, Eddie can’t tell if Richie’s joking or not: his face is on the fence between earnest and teasing and Eddie’s finding it difficult to look at anything past that fucking fudge swipe across his cheek, like, there’s fucking napkins in the middle of the table for a reason, Richie should just _use_ them— 

“Do you have plans this summer, Eddie?” Ben asks, pulling Eddie’s attention away from the annoying mess on Richie’s face. 

“What? Oh, um. I don’t know.” He sits back against the booth which squeaks against the rubber of his jacket. “Frank said if I want to work I better find something in the next week or I’ll be beat out by the sixteen year olds.” 

Mike tilts his head. “You aren’t going to work on the boats with Frank?” 

Until ten minutes ago, Eddie didn’t even know where Frank worked. He’d inferred the whole boat thing, of course — he’s not an idiot — but Frank and him hadn’t really talked all that much past surface level shit that came up over Susan’s weird organic cooking. When Frank had showed up at Sonia’s funeral, Eddie realized he’d have to open himself to the idea that Frank Kaspbrak isn’t the evil villain Sonia had crafted him to be, but trying to wrap his mind around _this_ Frank — this Funky Frank, captain of a party tour, celebrity of a small town Frank — is almost more difficult to digest than learning his father is still alive. 

There’s a lot of complicated emotions shaking around in Eddie’s brain right now, really, but he tucks them away to deal with later and goes with the cop out answer instead of the full truth. 

“Would _you_ want to work with your parents?”

Mike laughs. “Been there, done that. Fair enough.” 

“So you don’t know where you’re going to apply then?” Bev’s giving him a strange look as she pushes peach ice cream around in her dish, and Eddie doesn’t miss the glance she exchanges with Bill and Stan. 

Eddie shakes his head. Bev’s mouth pulls into a big, innocent smile. 

“How do you feel about waterparks, Eddie?” 

* * *

By the time Eddie gets home, the sun is sitting low in orange and pink clouds. His day is gone, sure, but not wasted; the hours are tucked into the booth in the back of SuperFreeze, along with sparkler ash and new memories and the first real full-belly laugh he’s had since the beginning of May. 

It was… it was nice. It was a good time. Eddie’s… he’s never really gotten to have friends like this; he was always too busy being his mom’s best friend to be anyone else’s. And maybe he can’t actually call them friends yet — one afternoon doesn’t necessarily mean a lasting bond — but the way they’d all made Bill promise to bring Eddie around again makes him think he’s at least on the right path. 

That and the way they’d begged him to take a job at Water Circus, of course. 

“Our life jacket booth tender had to resign because he broke his hip last month,” Ben said.

“The p-pay is great! Okay, it’s good. Okay, it’s duh-decent. But we get free fuh-food. Okay, we get one meal a duh-day. But it’s good food. Okay, it’s duh-decent,” Bill said.

“I thought you guys hated working there. The chlorine smell? The kids?” Eddie pushed the ashy ice cream, now more of a soup, around in his bowl.

“Yeah, it absolutely sucks.” Richie said. “But we love it. Best job in town.”

“Wouldn’t give it up for anything,” Stan said. 

“I’d give it up to work at Hanscom’s Bakery, probably,” Mike said.

“You just think Ben’s mom is hot,” Bev said, and then they’d all laughed. 

Before he left, Bill walked him out. He’d offered to ride home with Eddie, but the others were making no move to leave and Eddie wasn’t going to pull Bill away just to make sure he got home alright. 

“Juh-just think about it, alright? I can guh-get you into training on Monday, no applications. If you wuh-want. No puh-pressure.” Bill pat Eddie on the shoulder, a little awkward, but genuine nonetheless. “It’d be c-cool to have you, though.” 

Eddie only got lost once on the way back. It was fine. 

Frank’s truck is in the driveway, which isn’t a surprise, but is comforting regardless; no awkward conversations with Susan. The pile of bikes from earlier is still at the end of Bill’s drive, but Eddie feels bad about just throwing someone else’s stuff on the ground so he leans it against the mailbox before stepping puddle to puddle back to his own yard. 

Once clean boots are now covered in wet grass and chunks of mud, so Eddie tugs them off at the base of the porch. Across the street, the woman takes a long drag of her cigarette from the steps of her porch; two new joggers stand on the side of the road laughing and catching up, their dogs asleep at their feet; a car rolls by, laughter drifting from the open windows and then slowly fading away. Business as usual, even hours later. Derry’s soft monotony is a comforting loop — one that Eddie finds himself fitting into without even trying.

“Hey, you! Murderer!” Eddie’s head whips toward Bill’s house. Next to the pile of bikes is Ellie. 

“Hey Ellie,” Eddie calls, and he waves. Ellie doesn’t look impressed, but that doesn’t stop them from walking over. 

Hands on their hips, Ellie stops directly in front of where Eddie sits on the bottom step. “Kill any more snails?”

“Not that I know of.” 

“You’re avoiding the question.” 

Eddie makes a little cross motion over his heart. “I haven’t killed any more snails, on purpose or accident. I swear.”

His motion seems to placate Ellie, who sniffs and nods. “Acceptable. You’re still on my list.”

“Acceptable.” 

At that, Ellie smiles. Instantly, Eddie knows why he recognized Richie.

“I think I met your brother today.”

“Tall? Ugly? Stupid?” 

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me too.” 

Ellie stands there staring for another uncomfortable minute before they abruptly turn and head back over to where their bike lays. Eddie shrugs. Well, okay. 

Before he goes inside, though, he hears Ellie call out from the street: “Bye, Murderer!” 

Eddie waves and Ellie disappears down the road. It’s a start. 

Inside it smells delicious: peppers, spices, things Eddie can’t quite place because Sonia’s kitchen usually smelled like bleach or roast turkey. The screen door snaps closed behind him as Eddie pads inside to seek out the source of whatever’s making his stomach rumble. 

“Smells good in here,” Eddie says, tugging down the zipper of his raincoat. Frank stands at the stove, armed with a spatula and a package of fajita mix, as he battles the sizzling peppers and chicken before him. At Eddie’s entrance, he turns.

“Hey, kid— oh.” Frank’s face freezes, caught somewhere between a smile and a distant stare. “Where’d you find that jacket?”

Eddie turns tomato red and his lungs start to fold in half. Shit. Fuck. He should’ve asked. “The, uh, the coat closet. It was in the back, I didn’t think anyone was using it so I figured it’d be okay to borrow just for the day, I thought—”

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay, don’t worry. Not a big deal.” Behind Frank, the peppers are screaming. Eddie’s heart can relate. “I just… haven’t seen it in a while.”

Frank’s still staring at the coat, eyes big and full of something deep and sad and way too complicated for Eddie to try to understand about someone whose middle name he doesn’t know. He wants to move, to take the coat off and maybe have it dry-cleaned or something because he feels so awful, but he’s stuck there in Frank’s gaze. He’s going to say something, or do something, or something, and then Frank blinks away whatever memory he’d been frozen in and a soft, genuine smile pulls at the corner of his eyes. 

“Keep it. It fits you.” Frank turns back to his battle, spatula raised once again like a weapon. “Dinner’s on in twenty, kid!” 

As Eddie re-hangs the coat, he catches sight of the tag — something he’d missed earlier in his haste to get out of the house. Embroidered over the old washing instructions tag are the letters B.K., crooked but secure. Eddie runs his thumb over them, like he did with the carving on the furniture — like maybe it could give him answers to who these people are. It doesn’t, though, of course. It only makes for more questions. 

The fajitas are fantastic. Eddie’s never had them before, so he doesn’t have anything to base it on, but whoever makes fajitas for him next is going to have to work pretty hard to reach the standards Frank has set. It’s a shame that Eddie spends the entirety of the meal working to keep himself from throwing it all back up. 

_“Not so much salt, Frankie, I’ve seen how you cook. The last thing you need is a heart failure this close to season opening.”_

_“Don’t eat so fast, Frankie. Your stomach has a difficult enough time as it is — give your tummy some time to process.”_

_“Why don’t you skip the dessert tonight, Frankie? Here, have your multivitamin instead.”_

Eddie doesn’t stick around to hear any more after that. 

“I need to go do something. Thanks for dinner, Frank. Susan.” 

Bill’s door opens when Eddie knocks, but it’s not Bill there to answer. It could be Bill, if Bill was about five years younger and blond. 

“Uh, hi. Is Bill home?” 

“Nah, he’s at SuperFreeze. Or he was. Who knows.” The kid — who Eddie can only assume to be Georgie — narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Right. Can you tell him I stopped by? No, actually, just um. Tell him I want the job. Please. Please I want the job.” 

Georgie nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.” 

They stand there staring for a few more seconds. 

“Are you Funky Frank’s kid?” Georgie asks.

“Eddie,” Eddie says. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Eddie nods. “Are you Bill’s brother?”

“Georgie,” Georgie says. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” 

“Cool.” 

Georgie keeps standing there, and Eddie keeps standing there, until he finally says “Alright, I’m gonna… go now.”

“See ya, Eddie.”

“Bye, Georgie.” 

The door slams, probably out of teenage ignorance rather than rudeness, and Eddie turns to leave. 

But Eddie doesn’t go home; he goes to the ocean. He doesn’t stick his feet in this time — he doesn’t even get close enough to feel the sea spray. Instead he lays out on the night-chilled sand and stares up at the stars, which stare right back at him. 

Eddie supposes it isn’t true that his mom had always been his only friend. The stars have always been there too, and they’re way better listeners than Sonia ever was. The stars couldn’t respond, couldn’t tell Eddie no, or that he was too sick, or too fragile, or too young to understand. 

“My father is alive,” Eddie says to the sky. His toes are starting to go numb from where he’s stuck them in the cold sand. “My mother is dead. Today, I went out in the rain, and I didn’t get sick.” He pauses. “Yet. And I made a friend. Maybe more. And on Monday, I’ll have a job at a waterpark.” 

He waits for someone to list the dangers of playing in the cold, or to list the diseases that lay at the bottom of lazy rivers and the germs that coat waterslides. The stars don’t say anything, though: the stars just glitter, and shine, and listen. And that’s all Eddie needs. 


	3. pennywise the kid-eating clown (in swim trunks!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aw, don’t be like that! Don’t you want to get to know your new co-workers? It’s going to be an awfully long summer if you spend the whole thing on your own.” 
> 
> Richie’s got a point, even if all he’s doing is trying to get under Eddie’s skin—but Eddie’s got one, too. “There are other people who work here, Richie.”
> 
> “Well, yeah.” Richie leans forward, eyes flitting across Eddie’s face in a way that makes him a little nervous, though he can’t place why. “But they aren’t me, _Eds._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i know it's been months but i'm back now, and isn't that what's really important??

“Do you have a bike?”

Frank pauses, mouth full of scrambled eggs. Eddie thinks he says  _ what? _ , but it’s hard to tell because his mouth is full of scrambled eggs. It’s become a sort of ritual, these breakfasts. No Susan, who’s usually in her first weirdo yoga class by now; just Frank, Eddie, whatever breakfast feast Frank’s whipped up, and the eighteen or so years of awkwardness between them.

“Like, um. A bicycle.” 

_ No shit. _

Frank nods as he swallows, fork scraping across the ceramic plate as he scoops up another whopping bite. “I think I might have something out in the shed somewhere. Are you gonna go hang out with Sharie’s kid again? At,” Frank turns his wrist to check his watch, promptly dumping the forkful of eggs back onto the plate. “7:30 in the morning?” 

“Sort of. I got a job. Up at the waterpark.” 

Frank’s face brightens so fast Eddie would think he just told him the best news in the world. “Hey-hey! That’s great, kid! Whaddya’ doin? Slides? Concessions?”

“I have no idea, actually.” Despite Frank’s infectious excitement, Eddie pushes his eggs around the plate. His stomach is far too nervous to eat, even if they smell incredible, but Frank doesn’t seem too offended at Eddie’s lack of appetite. In fact, he’s eyeing Eddie’s plate like he might ask to finish it off himself. “All Bill said was to meet him at the park this morning for training.”

Yesterday, Bill returned Eddie’s house call with a visit of his own, accompanied by a woman an inch taller than him and an apple pie the size of Pittsburgh. 

“Ssso you’ll do it? You’ll come work at wuh-wuh-Water Circus?”

“Bill,” the woman admonished. “ _ Manners _ .”

“Sss-sorry. Hi Eddie, how are you! Are you guh-gonna take the job?”

The woman was, apparently, Bill’s mother. Sharon, she introduced herself as, but when Frank came clomping down the stairs he greeted her warmly and openly as  _ Sharie _ , which caused a sweet blush to spread over her cheeks. Eddie watched on with curious eyes as Frank brought her (and the pie) into the kitchen, light laughter following. Bill didn’t seem taken by the interaction at all. 

“So?”

Eddie blinked, brain stuck trying to process Bill’s excitement and the shy smile that popped up on Frank’s face when Sharon arrived. “What?”

“Training is muh-Monday at 9:00am. Be there. And wear a swuh-swimsuit!” 

“This Monday? Do I need to bring any documentation?” Bill was already down the steps, moving away from the conversation and Eddie’s increasingly frantic tone. The screen door smacked against the wooden frame as Eddie walked to the edge of the porch. “I have a degree in finance, do I need to bring proof of graduation? My social security card? Should I bring a lunch? Bill?”

“I have to tell the Losers!” Bill called over his shoulder. “Juh-just be there!” 

“But what about—” Bill was gone. Dust in the wind, nothing but a boy on a bike on a mission. “—employee dress codes,” Eddie finished lamely.

The pie still sits on the counter. It’s only missing one slice, which was all Frank had managed to sneak before Susan came in with her iron fist about  _ sugars  _ and  _ cholesterols.  _ She’d even suggested throwing it out — had gotten all the way to the trashcan before Eddie piped out that hey, he loves apple pie, so could she please keep it around just in case? Susan’s mouth had wound up so tight it looked like she was literally eating her words, and she dropped the pie back on the counter without anything else to say about it. There’d been a brief, curious side-eye from Frank, but when Eddie met his eyes, Frank just winked, and that had been that. 

It’s not that Eddie doesn’t like Susan. Well, it is—he really doesn’t like her—but… okay. There’s no buts. Eddie doesn’t like his father’s fiancée. He feels bad about it, though, especially with how genuinely Frank seems to care about her. The other night he’d walked through the living room to get water before bed and found them curled up together on the couch watching  _ Snapped _ . They seemed sweet enough—Susan had her feet in Frank’s lap and he was absently rubbing her ankles with glazed eyes aimed at the television set. When he caught sight of Eddie, he smiled; Susan barely tried to hide her grimace. Eddie smiled back anyway. 

Surely there’s something about Susan that Eddie can find to cling to. Frank so clearly loves her, wants to  _ marry _ her, and while Eddie’s known his father for less than a month, he doesn’t seem to arbitrarily throw his heart around. Eddie wants to like Susan: not only because he wants to at least attempt a relationship with his once-dead father, but because Eddie firmly believes that there is something,  _ something _ good in everyone. He just needs to find wherever Susan is hiding her good side. 

“Well,” Frank says, fork clattering against his plate. He pats his belly once, twice, and then stands with an odd sort of dad-groan before nodding his head towards the door. “Let’s go check out the shed, eh?” 

Out behind the house is a medium-sized wooden shed, green paint sun-faded and chipping in most places. It looks pretty worn down, but it’s still standing, at least. The hinges are rusted, and when Frank tugs at the lock on the door, it falls off into the sandy dirt—broken. When Eddie lifts an eyebrow, Frank snorts. “It’s a trustworthy town. Nothin’ worth stealin’ anyway.” 

The cloud of dust that kicks out when Frank yanks open the doors is enough to make them both sneeze: big, raucous sounding things that seem to travel all the way to the ocean and back. Eddie says _ bless you _ at the same time that Frank says  _ get any on ya’? _ and they both grin. 

“I know we used to have a bike or two back here, but I haven’t opened this up in years. Sorry about the mess; I’m not much of a cleaner.” 

That much is obvious. The shed is stuffed front to back with gidgets and gadgets. Watering pails, deflated floaties, cracked flower pots, a broken metal detector. Stacks of old beach furniture and their matching ripped cushions create a maze through the majority of the space. A wooden workbench covered in paint samples and tools that Eddie’s never seen before takes up the entire back corner. An ancient looking lawnmower is the least dusty item, sitting right at the front, but even that is coated with a layer of time a few centimeters thick. It’s hard to navigate, honestly, but Frank paves the way, weaving through the junk like a master navigator. 

“You surf?” Eddie questions, motioning to a floral printed surfboard mounted on the wall. Frank gives it a glance, and an unreadable expression passes over his face. 

“Nope. Never could get the hang of it. Bad knees.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, so Eddie doesn’t ask. He only follows deeper into the maze of stacked coolers and fishing gear. There’s so much here, so many memories lost to the shadows of an untouched beach shed. Eddie wonders what he’d find if he dug deep enough, pushed past inner tubes and a weird looking piece of metal that may or may not be a grill. How much of Frank hides in here? How much history could Eddie uncover? It’s so overwhelming that Eddie forgets to be grossed out by the sheer amount of dust and potential spiders that lurk on the walls.

Frank’s all the way at the back of the shed now, mumbling to himself about  _ I know there’s something in here _ and  _ I should’ve fixed the light when it went out the first time _ , when Eddie spots it. Underneath one of the tattered beach cushions there’s a bike: bright yellow and high handled, a little bell secured to the front next to a tiny wicker basket. It’s trapped in a wall of Stuff, but from what Eddie can see, the bike looks like it’ll ride, which is all he needs. 

“Hey, uh. Hey Frank? I think I found something.” 

Frank comes up behind him, still mumbling about the lack of light and his old eyes, but he stops suddenly just over Eddie’s shoulder. “Well, shit. You sure did.” 

Eddie looks up at his father, only to find the same odd expression from earlier. “Will it work? I don’t need to use it, I can walk down there, it’s really no big deal.” 

“What?” Frank meets his eyes and the strange look melts away into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, no, kid, we came in here to find you a ride and we found it. It’s… memories, is all.” Frank claps a gentle hand on Eddie’s shoulder. He gets the feeling he’s missing something important. “Alright, let’s get this baby out of here. Don’t want you late on your first day!”

The swap from May to June had happened overnight. Like, literally, yes, that’s how calendars work, but the weather had also taken a sharp turn toward the summertime. Only 8:00am and Eddie can feel the bright rays of sun starting to beat down, temperature slowly ticking higher and higher. It takes a solid ten minutes of finagling to get the bicycle out, and both of them are sweating by the time it’s freed. Eddie wipes his clammy hands on the front of his new, red swim trunks. They’re the same shade as the raincoat he’d accidentally stolen from Frank’s closet, which is why he’d bought them, along with the fact he needed a pair for work that wasn’t six years old. When Frank had seen them before breakfast, he’d smiled with sadness in his eyes and ruffled Eddie’s hair.  _ Good choice _ , he said. 

In the sun the bike looks even better, seemingly untouched by time (though a spider does fling itself from the seat and skitters past Eddie’s foot, apparently pissed that they’d interrupted its sleeping). 

“A beauty, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says honestly and runs his fingers across the handlebars. It’s a really fucking cool bike. Eddie looks up at Frank, double checking that it’s okay he uses it. There’s definitely something his father isn’t telling him, but he’s not going to pry it out. They both know well enough what it’s like to have their truths smothered out of them. Frank gives him a small but genuine smile and sticks his chin toward the front of the house. 

“Get outta here, kid. You’re gonna’ be late! And…” Frank checks his watch again. “So am I. Go on, I’ll close up. Will you be back around for dinner? Susan’s making vegan pot roast.” 

Vegan pot roast sounds the opposite of delicious, actually, but Eddie gives him a nod and a smile anyway. “I’ll try.”

With another quick shoulder pat, Frank sends him on his way, and Eddie hops on his bike before he’s late for the first day of the rest of the summer. The last thing he hears as he cycles away is Frank calling out  _ have fun, kiddo! _ into the early morning breeze.

* * *

Eddie stands, terrified, at the front gate of Water Circus Aquatic Park. The terror is half from nerves, obviously, but the other half comes straight from the towering statue of a clown in striped swim trunks that guards the gates like Cerberus in Hell. The wide-eyed smile painted onto the near-twenty foot statue does nothing to soothe his sweaty brow. Eddie drags his eyes away with little difficulty, staring instead at the empty park before him.

“You can do this,” he tells himself. “It’s just a job.” 

Because it is! It’s just a job. Eddie’s had a job before. Sure, maybe bagging groceries was a little different than working at a waterpark with six practical strangers (one of whom Eddie is certain he hates, even if he only has the flimsy evidence of ‘not able to properly use napkins’ to support that claim), but still. He can do this. He’s not nervous, despite the rolling in his stomach and the way his feet itch to jump back on his bike and pedal all the way home. It’s already chained to the bike rack, though, alongside a silver one he recognizes as Bill’s.

“C’mon, Eddie,” he mutters to himself, and then bites his tongue because the last thing he wants is for one of his new co-workers to overhear him talking to himself like a moron. He walks forward then, aiming to pass through one of the turnstiles that leads into the park. The bar, however, doesn’t move, and Eddie cringes from the sharp pain of his hips smashing into metal. How embarrassing. At least no one was around to see him— 

“Already tried that. Pretty sure they’re locked until 10am.” 

Eddie spins around, heat rising to his cheeks at the sound of a stranger’s voice. She’s leaning against the fence in the shade off to the side, just out of sight from where he’d been hyping himself up. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Eddie asks, squinting against the sun.

“The whole time. It’s okay, I talk to myself too. Sometimes I’m the only one who listens.” She steps out from the shadows then, pushing her sunglasses up onto her forehead. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you’re new too.”

Eddie has to hold up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun in order to see her fully, and boy, is she a sight to see. A blue bandana holds a monstrous amount of bouncy blond curls out of her soft face, though flyaways spring up, untameable. The orange-print shorts she’s wearing would make even Ellie gasp, and there are little plastic life rings dangling from her ears that look, at least to Eddie, handmade. Ironically, the words printed across her shirt read  _ save yourself _ . 

“How’d you guess?” 

“Instinct,” the girl says, grinning, and she offers out her hand. Every nail is a different shade of orange. It, somehow, works. “I’m Patty. This is my first summer here.” 

“Eddie,” he says, and takes her hand to shake. She’s got a surprisingly—or, really, not so surprisingly—firm grip. “And same.”

Patty’s grin doesn’t fade. “Yeah, I heard.” She frees him from her grip and tucks a stray hair behind her ear, though it immediately pops back out with the faintest breeze. “Hey, does that thing freak you out, or is it just me?” 

Eddie turns to see what she’s pointing at, only to be faced with the terrifying clown again. God that thing is fucking creepy. Quickly, he turns back to face her. “It’s not just you.”

“You don’t think it comes alive at night or anything, do you?”

Stone-faced, Eddie grimaces. “You’re going to make me quit this job before I’ve even started.”

When Patty laughs, it’s a honking of a thing that makes the hoop in her nose wiggle. Eddie loves her already. He also feels approximately 80x more comfortable knowing he has someone else as new as him going in, too. 

“I’ve been waiting here for like, fifteen minutes, and at this point I’m convinced I’m being hazed. You think we should jump the turnstiles?”

“I think I’d fall on my face if we did that.”

Another honking laugh, and Patty makes a hand motion like she’d have the same fate. “There’s gotta be an employee entrance, right? Or maybe—”

“Eddie! Eddie! Hey, hey! Eddie!” Bill’s voice rings out from inside the park, and the two of them turn to see him sprinting across the pavement. “Oh! And you muh-must be Patty! Cuh-come on in! We left the door open fff-for you guys!” His footsteps slow, and to their right, a door made of the same fencing that surrounds the park opens easily. Patty and Eddie exchange a look, immediately making a silent promise to pretend neither of them had attempted to walk through locked turnstiles like complete morons. 

Bill ushers them in something before closing the gate behind them. “Everyone is waiting over at the puh-puh-pavilion. You guys are the first new hires in fff-four years or something. Since Kay, at least. Exciting stuh-stuh—shit, isn’t it?”

“You’d get a lot more applicants if you knocked that creepy clown statue down,” Patty jokes.

“Who, Penny? Ah, don’t wuh-worry, he won’t hurt you. He only eats chh-chh—kids.” Bill winks at the two of them, and while Eddie’s sure Bill’s just teasing, he doesn’t laugh. Clowns are fucked up, alright? The idea of a twenty-foot one in swimwear eating children doesn’t ease any of that fear. 

Bill’s yammering on to Patty about her earrings— _ oh my God, I didn’t know they made life pr-ruh-ruh- life rings that small _ —and Patty’s giggling in that loud, cackley way of hers— _ I made them myself, I can make you a pair? _ —but Eddie’s all but completely tuned them out. The smell of chlorine is near overwhelming; it zings through him, makes all his nose hairs stand on end as a wash of oddly placed nostalgia fills his chest. Sonia never liked when he went to the public pool as a kid, claiming that you never knew when the last time any of those kids actually showered (which is partly fair). When they did make the trip, Eddie spent most of his time sitting at one of the grated metal tables, poking at a flavorless turkey sandwich as he waited for his mother to finish her hourly application of sunscreen. 

Eddie didn’t ask to go to the pool very often. 

Thoughts of Sonia bog him down and he speeds up a little to keep up with Patty and Bill. The guy’s only like an inch taller than him, but he can really move when he wants to. Past the entrance, which seemed to be, other than the clown & cheesy ticket booth, fairly normal, the theme really starts to pick up speed. They pass a grove of gazebo-esque tents topped in red and white stripes; pool rings printed in gaudy colors float unaccompanied down the lazy river that weaves through the park; they even pass a small zoo of fountains shaped like elephants and lions and tigers, though the water must be turned off because they’re all dry and baking in the sun. While it’s certainly not the theme Eddie would’ve chosen, it’s well done. He can even smell the faint scent of cotton candy wafting through the sharp chlorine. 

And then he smells hot dogs, and nacho cheese, and oh — they’re at what must be the pavilion: a giant wooden one painted like the smaller gazebos along the wave pools, that houses two handfuls of long tables with benches attached. A sign hangs from the roof, lopsided: The Big Top. 

“Well if it isn’t Funky Frank’s flesh and blood.” 

Eddie snaps back into reality like he’s been slapped. He stops hard, ignoring Patty’s arched brow as he decides whether or not to engage with who he  _ knows _ is standing behind him. (Of course he will. He’s not rude, unlike other people he’s recently met.)

“I have a name, you know,” Eddie says, slowly spinning to meet Richie’s gaze. He’s wearing the most horrendous pair of swim trunks Eddie thinks he’s ever seen: bright green with little coconuts printed all over the fabric. Alright, well, they’re not that horrendous on their own, but paired with the yellow employee shirt that hangs off his broad shoulders, it’s an eyesore. Richie pushes his chunky glasses up his nose and grins.

“Right, right. Sorry;  _ Eds _ .”

“It’s Eddie, actually.”

“Close enough.” 

Eddie frowns because it’s  _ not _ , but any protest he might have gets steamrolled by Richie’s dramatic gasp. He’s not looking at Eddie anymore, though.

“Now there’s a woman with fashion. You must be Patty Blum.” Richie slides right past Eddie, who’s still standing there like a dope, and their arms brush before Richie reaches out to take Patty’s hand. “May I?” he asks, already bending over. 

“You may,” she giggles, and when Richie presses an obnoxious kiss to her knuckles, she does her part and swoons. 

“Charming  _ and _ fashionable. Now, Eddie,” Richie says, turning back. The light in his eyes practically gleams; Eddie frowns harder. “You could learn a thing or two from Ms. Blum.” 

“Richie please stop flirting with the newbies; we have work to do.” Bev’s voice is stern though her face is not, eyes glittering with the same mischief as Richie’s from her perch on the table. It works, at least, though Richie blows Eddie a kiss before he’s joining the small gaggle of people in a rainbow of employee shirts. Eddie only recognizes a few: Ben, Mike, and Stan are beside Bev, though they’re sitting on the benches normally, and Bill, of course, who’s busy squeezing himself into the too-small space between Mike and some poor girl in a lifeguard suit. 

And Richie, who is… patting an empty spot on the bench beside him. Great. 

“Do you want to sit there?” Eddie asks Patty, but she’s… not listening. She’s staring, big time. Her brown eyes are practically glued to, if Eddie’s calculations are correct, none other than Stan. Who is staring right back. They go on like that for a while, until Stan clasps an iron-tight hand onto Bill’s shoulder and mumbles something unintelligible without breaking the stare. Eddie’s eyes flick back and forth between them before he gives up on his question with a little smile. The smile twists into a frown when his legs carry him to where Richie’s still patting the bench, though it’s hard to keep on his face because the guy looks so fucking goofy when he grins like that. 

“Nice purse, Eds.”

Eddie clamps down the urge to turn around and go home, instead dropping into the seat beside Richie. “It’s a fanny pack. And don’t call me Eds. And pay attention!” 

“No one’s talking.”

“ _ Yet _ .”

“Aw, don’t be like that! Don’t you want to get to know your new co-workers? It’s going to be an awfully long summer if you spend the whole thing on your own.” 

Richie’s got a point, even if all he’s doing is trying to get under Eddie’s skin—but Eddie’s got one, too. “There are other people who work here, Richie.”

“Well, yeah.” Richie leans forward, eyes flitting across Eddie’s face in a way that makes him a little nervous, though he can’t place why. “But they aren’t me,  _ Eds _ .” 

Before Eddie has a chance to get even more haughty, which, honestly, probably isn’t possible, Bill squeezes out from his seat and steps onto the table. He gives Richie one last eyebrow quirk before turning away from his still-beaming, stupid, dumb little face. 

Most of the casual conversation fades away before Bill actually says anything. Bev calls for everyone to  _ ‘shut up, please and thanks’  _ anyway, and a dainty flush colors Bill’s cheeks when he’s greeted with total silence. 

“Hello, everyone! Wuh-wuh-welcome back! Who’s ready for another great ssssummer at Wuh-Water Circus?” Bill’s words are met with an overwhelming amount of unenthusiastic groans, but Richie whoops and hollers. “Thank you, Richie. Now, before we get stuh-stuh-stuh—before we get going, we have two new recruits this year. Let’s all give a warm welcome to Eddie and Patty!” 

Oh, dread. Eddie’s sweating bullets. Those who hadn’t caught wind of the newbies as they’d entered the Big Top all stared at him now, twenty or so sets of curious eyes glued to either him or Patty. At another table, Patty smiles brightly and waves with the comfort level of someone who, you know, makes their own earrings and wears bold-printed shorts; Eddie gives them all an awkward thumbs up. 

“Please make them feel wuh-wuh—at home; we haven’t had new staff in a while and I don’t want anyone ssscaring them off.” Someone in the crowd calls out  _ cough cough  _ **_Richie_ ** , and there’s a smattering of suppressed giggles that runs through the crowd. Richie makes an indignant noise.

“Hey! Everybody loves me!” 

Bev snorts. “Keep telling yourself that, Tozier.” 

“Alright, alright, wuh-we can pick on Richie later.” Another affronted noise from Richie. “But right now we have to go over staff rules. I know, I know,” Bill says, cutting off the wave of protests with that same patient smile he always wore. Immediately the noise petered out; Bill seems to have the kind of energy that made people want to listen. “But, as always, there’s fuh-fuh-freezypops at the Snack Shack when we’re finished. Okay, first up: please, for the love of juh-juh-Jesus, don’t fuck in the changing rooms.” 

“Are the showers still off limits?” Richie’s face is as innocent as the question. Across the table, Stan is shooting him such a startlingly scary death glare that Eddie can practically feel  _ shut up _ vibes radiating from it. 

“I’d be more worried about finding someone who will actually give you the time of day, Richard.” Stan blinks sweetly and Eddie snickers; Richie sticks out his tongue. Above them, Bill sighs and continues on. 

It’s pretty basic stuff, all of which Eddie would have assumed on his own. No drinking on the job, treat even the stupidest customers with respect, simple safety measures. He also says something about there being no inter-staff relationships, but the amount of laughter and raised eyebrows that causes leads Eddie to assume that rule came with its own don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. Bev had moved to Ben’s lap before Bill started his speech; clearly, some rules are meant to be broken. 

Eddie gets the feeling someone’s staring at him, but when he turns to glance at Richie, he’s staring holes into the table. Eddie looks away quickly, eyes back on Bill and his brown Teva sandals. Weird. 

The most surprising thing is how carefully everyone seems to be listening. They chime in with comments or cheers when they feel it’s necessary, of course, but they always go right back to paying attention when Bill lifts his hand to quiet them down. This tiny, willowy man with soft eyes commands every young adult in the room with a kind of gentle assertiveness Eddie’s never really seen before. The leadership he holds feels almost brotherly; safe. 

Everything about Water Circus seems safe, actually—save for the fucking clown statue. And Richie. Everything else, though… Eddie gets the feeling that he’ll be spending a lot more time here than at Frank’s house, and not just because he works here. Water Circus has food, friends(!), and, most importantly, it does  _ not _ have Susan. All winning features in Eddie’s book. 

“That’s about it. Make sure to say hi to the newbies today; everyone go grab a fuh-fuh—a popsicle!” Bill turns to Eddie as the crowd begins to disperse, presumably to head to their posts. “Excited?” 

Is he? “Yes. Nervous, too, but yeah.” 

“Don’t wuh-worry, it’s not as scary as it seems. Sure, we’re in charge of huh-hundreds of lives every day, but it’s a very low-pressure job.” Bill doesn’t seem to be aware of just how frightening that sentence is; he’s still smiling in that bouncy, puppy-like way, like he didn’t just reach into Eddie’s chest and shake his heart around like a can of soda. Cool. Totally low-pressure. 

Patty joins them then, fluffy hair bouncing in the gentle breeze that drifts through the pavilion. “Where to, captain?” 

“You’ll be working the prize booth in the arcade. Sss-stan will show you around since he’s the guh-game attendant.” 

Richie, who Eddie was  _ not  _ watching out of the corner of his eye, screws up his face. “Hey, wh—”

“Richie, you’re going to show Eddie around before heading to the sss-slides.” Bill says this slowly, like he’s attempting to communicate between the lines; Richie’s face softens, but he still looks a bit confused. “Okay. I’m going to get a puh-popsicle. Bye!” 

Bill jumps off the table and practically soars off toward the giant Snack Shack. Well, alright then. Stan stands stiffly, looking so positively smitten when he locks eyes with Patty that Eddie feels almost voyeuristic. 

“Shall we?” Stan holds out his hand, palm up: a bold move. It pays off, though; Patty beams and confidently clasps their hands together. 

“We shall.” 

No inter-staff relationships. Absolute bullshit. 

It doesn’t hit Eddie that he’s alone with Richie until the latter holds out his own spindly hand. Then, to Eddie’s horror, he clears his throat and speaks in a (surprisingly accurate) British accent. 

“ _ Well then: shall we, ol’ chap? _ ” 

Eddie’s heart thumps off beat; he rolls his eyes and slaps Richie’s hand away gently. “Please just show me around.” 

Richie tips an invisible hat. “ _ As you wish, m’lord _ .” 

* * *

They hit up the Snack Shack first because yeah, it’s ten in the morning, but Eddie’s not about to turn down a free popsicle. The heat is picking up speed with every inch the sun rises, and Eddie’s not a very sweaty guy but he can feel it beading behind his fucking ears. His ears! It’s a decently-sized stand: square, with the front painted in the red and white stripes that seem to track around the entire park. A trail of peanuts and cotton candy are painted across the front and sides of the building, and the menu sways gently in the breeze above where Ben is handing off popsicles to two girls in lifeguard suits. He waves one of his ginormous hands as they approach; he’s wearing a visor, but Eddie can still see the chubby-cheeked smile that brightens his hazel eyes. 

_ “Our first stop,”  _ Richie says in a radio announcer Voice. Eddie says  _ oh jeez _ under his breath and Richie’s chest puffs up a little more.  _ “Is the esteemed, five-star restaurant commonly known as the Snackius Shackius. Everything is made fresh with love every day.”  _

Behind the counter, Ben shakes his head. “Nowhere near five stars.” To Eddie: “Everything comes frozen. Reheated with love, maybe.” 

“It’s the thought that counts, Benny boy. Two of your finest popsicles, please.” Richie taps his hand on the counter before shooting Eddie a wink. “Don’t worry, Eds. This one’s on me.” 

Eddie sucks his cheek between his teeth because it’s really not that funny but his lips are twitching like they ache to smile. Stupid joke. “Big spender.” 

“Flavors?” 

“Cherry pineapple, please.” 

“Richie,” Ben sighs. “For the last time. We don’t have your cherry pineapple popsicles.” 

“Can’t you check in the back? Please? For me?” Richie bats his eyelashes.

“No.”

“What kind of establishment  _ is _ this?!”

Eddie turns away so Richie won’t see him laugh, but Ben catches it. He shakes his head, silently entertained. “Eddie, what flavor would you like.” 

“Uhh... red?” 

“Coming right up.” Ben disappears for a moment, returning with double-fisted popsicles: one red, one blue. Eddie takes his with a small thank you, but Richie just sighs. 

“Well. I suppose it will do.” He doesn’t look put-out, though, and when he takes the popsicle, he immediately squeezes a quarter of the tube into his mouth and crunches down. When he says good-bye to Ben, it’s through a mouthful of blue ice. God. Richie’s a car crash Eddie can’t stop watching. He’s watching so intensely, in fact, Eddie accidentally grips too hard at the bottom of his and sticky red juice comes flying out of the open top—directly onto his swim trunks. Great; he’s a car crash, too. 

“ _ Right-o, Eddie-o! The tour continues! _ ” Richie once again adopts the characterized Voice of a radio announcer, waving his arms (and the quickly melting popsicle) around as Eddie gets a full rundown of the park. 

“As you saw, Ben works the Snack Shack. Kenna and Janelle take over for him later, but you’ll probably never get to see them ‘cause I think Bill’s got you on rotation with the rest of us for the summer. Besides, I know everything’s frozen, but that man still makes the fries taste better than anyone else— seriously. I don’t know what kind of magic sauce he’s smuggling in and I don’t care.” Eddie nods, chewing idly at the empty plastic between sips of his liquidizing popsicle. It’s incredibly sweet, but he sucks it down anyway because it’s cold and makes the sweat behind his ears chill out. “Over there is the wave pool. The lifeguards rotate every few hours, but you can usually find Kay and Mike on duty there because they’re better at dealing with the morons who try to surf.” 

“That’s a common occurrence?” 

“Oh, Eddie,” Richie says, more serious than Eddie’s heard him be since they met. “The idiocy of water and theme park patrons knows no bounds.” 

It’s not as big as it looks from the outside, but for what it lacks in size it makes up for in character. The bathrooms—which Richie refers to as  _ illustrious _ and  _ usually clean _ —are painted with murals of circus scenes in the same style of the little peanuts on the snack shack. Cartoon tigers leap through hoops, acrobats flip from the trapeze. All the trash cans they pass are painted to look like little clowns, and Eddie gets a special kind of kick out of punching a smiling clown in the face as he tosses the plastic from his popsicle. They follow the lazy river around the park and Richie tells him stories that make both Eddie’s jaw and hope for humanity drop. Kids left in the bathrooms, swimsuits abandoned in the gazebos, the bi-weekly wave pool shut down from a particularly drunk visitor taking a dump in the water.

“Ew! What the fuck? People just shit in the wave pool?!” Eddie’s face sours. 

“If you’re drunk enough, I guess it does kind of look like a giant toilet.”

“I am so glad I’m not a lifeguard.” 

“Speaking of which… Your station, good sir.” Richie makes a jazz hand-y motion toward the shack as they approach it. More paintings dance across the life jacket rental counter— perhaps the most horrifying yet. Clowns in life jackets line the building, including the one who Bill had referred to as Penny. Joy. Richie must clock the displeased pull of Eddie’s eyebrows because his lopsided grin returns. “What, you not a clown guy?”

“I didn’t think much of them until now, honestly. What’s his smile so creepy for?!” 

That makes Richie snort and lean in to the painting. He contorts his face so he’s wearing the same horrifyingly wide smile as Penny behind him. The Voice he puts on is squeaky and sends a shiver down Eddie’s spine, despite the glee in his eyes at how stupid Richie looks trying to match the painting’s expression. “ _ What’s wrong, Eddie? You don’t think I’m pretty? _ ” 

“I think you’re an idiot.” 

Richie’s hand slaps against his chest. “Oh, how you wound me. C’mon inside, I’ll show you how the tagging system works.” 

The standing space between the counter and the racks of life jackets and inflatables is narrow to the point that Richie and Eddie stand side by side, arms almost brushing as Richie shows him which tubes are for which height and how the sizing works on the life jackets. This close, Eddie can see the blue tinge on the center of Richie’s lips left behind by the popsicle. It matches his eyes, as well as the chipped blue nailpolish on half of his fingernails. Eddie’s listening, he’s totally listening, but he keeps looking at the stained lips that wrap around life jacket instructions and missing a word or two at a time. Eddie brings his fingers to his own lips, wondering if they’d been stained red. Richie raises an eyebrow when he notices.

“Are you okay? You’re not one of those people who are allergic to, like, red dye number 69 are you? Oh God, are you dying right now?” 

“What? No I mean, I do have many allergies, yes, but that’s not one of them. And that’s not even a real dye number!” Eddie’s cheeks flame up under Richie’s half-concerned, half-teasing gaze, and he looks away so he doesn’t have to see Richie’s messy blue face anymore. In doing so, he spots a small radio-looking device that blinks on its charging station. Perfect: a subject change. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know what a walkie talkie is?” 

“Of course I know what a walkie talkie is, I meant— I meant why is it there? What’s it for?”

“Talkieing while walkieing, of course.”

Eddie flips Richie off, who laughs at his own joke like he’s the funniest guy on the planet. He shrugs after that and leans up against the counter, forearms flexing to hold him up. “We haven’t used ‘em in awhile. I think they were used for security at one point, but now we just make Ben deal with disorderlies.” 

“You mean they didn’t pick  _ you  _ to intimidate patrons? Color me shocked.” 

Richie really laughs then—throws his head back and closes his eyes for a brief moment to really let the air honk out of him. What a sight to see, truly: Eddie’s never been a funnyguy, probably won’t ever be, but it becomes very important very quickly to be able to make Richie laugh like this as much as possible. “Eds gets off a good one! What, you don’t think my scrawny arms and chicken legs are intimidating?” 

“I’m sure you could really freak out some kindergarteners.” Another squawk of laughter, and this time Eddie joins in with his own soft, pleased little smile. “And don’t call me Eds.”

“Yeah, yeah, you got it.” Richie pushes off the counter, the ghost of his brash laughter still lingering on his face. “I’m fucking melting here. Let’s go to the arcade.”

So they do. Eddie’s thankful to be out of the narrow space because spending too much time that close to Richie and his headache-inducing shorts was beginning to make him feel seasick. He misses the shade immediately, though he’s pleased to find out (after Richie bows while opening the door for him) that the arcade is air-conditioned. A rush of crisp air hits his sweaty shins and sweaty nose, immediately cooling him from tip to toe. Eddie knows exactly where he’ll be spending his breaks. 

Plus it’s a really fucking sick arcade. The walls are lined with games, all flashing lights and zinging sound effects bouncing around the darkened room. Eddie regrets looking down at the carpet, which is covered in a nauseating repeating print of clown faces. At least he can have the subtle satisfaction of walking all over them. 

“This,” Richie says, and when Eddie looks up he’s got his long arms spread out and his head tilted back, blue eyes closed like he’s experiencing something holy. “Is the arcade. 28 machines. Two tokens per machine. And employees? Employees get unlimited tokens.” Eddie thinks he hears Richie sniffle before he’s lifting his head again. “It’s beautiful, Eddie. Fucking beautiful.” 

“Do you need a minute?” 

“No, no, I can pull myself together.” Richie dabs at the corners of his eyes and takes a deep breath while Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose and staves off another smile. “You an arcade man, Eddie? A game guy? A fast-fingered fella? I’ve got the highest score on our Mortal Kombat machine.” Leaning in, Richie pushes up his glasses before wiggling his thin fingers in Eddie’s face. “Some might say I’m pretty talented with these babies.” 

Before Eddie can gather enough mental spoons to reply to that particular sentence, he hears a familiar honking laugh from the other side of the room near the blinking lights of the prize booth. “Patty!” he calls, a hair of desperation in his voice, and Eddie motors across the room so fast one can almost see him kick up a trail of dust behind him. 

“Eddie!” When Patty comes into view, she’s leaning across the glass counter of the prize booth with a flush spread over the apples of her cheeks and the cheesiest smile hanging beneath it. Stan’s on the customer side, a similar flush on his face, but the corners of his mouth are turned into the beginnings of a frown— like he wasn’t prepared for more company. “What do you think of the park?”

“It’s… well-themed. The clowns are kind of freaking me out.” 

“They’ll never get less creepy, but I can assure you that you  _ will  _ get used to them.” Stan sniffs, idly picking at invisible dirt beneath his nails. “I had nightmares for weeks after I came to Water Circus for the first time.” 

Patty cackles, cracking the frown on Stan’s face, but Eddie stands there looking horrified. “Nightmares?!”

“I mean I was eight, but yes. Pennywise scared me shitless. I couldn’t understand why a clown would be in swim trunks and full clown makeup, either.”

Patty nods enthusiastically. “Right?! Like won’t the face paint wash off? Or is it somehow permanently tattooed to his face?” 

“Questions I never want to know the answer to.” Eddie shudders. The mental image of Pennywise doing a backstroke in the wave pool is threatening at best and downright horrifying at worst. “Bill said he eats kids. What the fuck is that about?”

Stan’s face twists into a flat look, though amusement dances in his eyes. Patty looks enthralled. “It means he eats kids, Eddie. It’s common knowledge.”

_ “Yeah, Eddie,” _ Richie breathes creepily into his ear, and Eddie jumps a solid foot into the air. 

“Oh, fuck you!” 

Richie’s laughing too hard to hear him. Even when Eddie gives him a solid (but gentle) thump to the bicep, he keeps laughing, little curls bouncing around his forehead with each wheezing inhale. “You should’ve seen your face, dude—” wheeze “—you jumped like, six feet into the air.”

“Did not,” Eddie grumbles. Richie’s not giving up. “You suck.” 

Maybe if Eddie had known Richie for a few hours longer he could’ve seen the next joke coming. Stan seems to sense it, a hand already rubbing at his temples like he could read directly into Richie’s soul. Eddie, however, is completely unprepared for the giddy look that rises in Richie’s eyes. He clasps a hand on the round of Eddie’s shoulder.

“Not as well as your mom blows, Eds.” 

An innocent enough joke. Even Patty snorts. Honestly, Eddie himself gives a little huff of a giggle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which he rolls as he throws up a middle finger to a pleased-looking Richie. There’s never really a good time to think about your dead mom, but before noon in front of three new co-workers is especially inappropriate. The thought is already worming its way into Eddie’s brain, though, wiggling around and planting roots. What would Sonia think of Eddie’s new job? Nothing good, that’s for sure. In fact, he’d be surprised if Sonia would’ve let him come to the waterpark just to  _ visit  _ let alone apply for a job. 

Stan says something funny—at least, he assumes it’s funny, because Patty laughs belly-deep about it—and Eddie’s suddenly thinking about how Sonia would feel about all of it. Everything. About the job, about the bike, about the ice cream. About his new friends. Beside him, Richie’s enacting something (a story of a patron, maybe, he doesn’t know, but Richie’s using a lot of hand motions and even more expressions, as well as a Voice that comes directly out of his nose). One thing is certain, at least. Sonia would absolutely, positively, completely and totally disapprove of Richie Tozier. 

* * *

The day passes all at once. It’s a slow day, mostly because the park isn’t even open yet and most of the water is shut off until it does, but it was a nice chance to get to know some of the staff and see the park before it’s filled with sunburnt tourists and screaming children. Richie spent most of the day following Eddie around and pushing as many buttons as he dared, and Eddie spent most of the day pretending his jokes and Voices weren’t funny. It wasn’t the worst way to spend time. 

The sun is nowhere near setting but it’s gotten slightly cooler in the hours he’d been working and now hangs gently between wisps of clouds as Eddie unlocks his bike from the rack. When he looks up, Mike and Bill are squeezing through the narrow gate door together, their shoulders pressed together while Bill talks animatedly about something Eddie can’t quite hear. Mike watches intently, nodding when necessary. 

_ They must be really close,  _ Eddie thinks. _ Really good pals.  _

“Hey! Eddie!” Bill’s trotting over, having seemingly said goodbye to Mike already. He starts unhooking his own bike from the metal pipes. “Wuh-wanna ride home together?”

That warm feeling Eddie got in the ice cream parlor the other day spreads over his chest, light and gooey. He nods, wiping his palms on the red swim trunks. “Yeah, yeah sure. I’d like that.” 

Bill beams. 

It’s a bit of a haul, honestly—much longer than the ride to Superfreeze, at least—but it’s mostly downhill and Bill keeps the silence filled with excitement about opening day, and how happy he is to be working with Eddie and Patty this year, and how good the soft pretzels are even if they  _ do  _ come in frozen packaging. 

“It duh-doesn’t matter if you do some nnn-nnn— cheese dipping, Eddie.” He says solemnly, the breeze blowing at his auburn hair while they whizz down into the residential part of town again. “A little dipping goes a luh-long way.” 

He’s serious, but Eddie still almost tips over from trying to keep a straight face about it.

“Wuh-we can ride up together tomorrow too if you wuh-want,” Bill offers when they turn into their respective driveways. Eddie leans his bike to the side and dismounts. “Georgie’ll probably come too. He likes to be the first one down the sss-slide every year.” 

Eddie nods, the  _ stickygooeywarm _ feeling in his chest once more. Friend, his neanderthal brain provides. Jesus. “Yeah, that sounds nice. I’ll see you tomorrow, Bill.”

Bill smiles so hard his eyes nearly disappear beneath the power of his cherub cheeks. “Sss-see ya’ tomorrow, Eddie!”

Eddie walks his bike down the driveway and through the space between their houses, carefully avoiding any rogue snails as he drives it toward the shed to park. It’s been such a hot, full day that everything in Eddie’s body calls to the water—to the cold, salty ocean washing over his toes—but he knows Frank is probably waiting on him for dinner. Susan too, and her vegan pot roast, but they’re less important. He lets himself waste time (one last moment alone, one last moment without the prickle of Susan’s voice grating against tender memories) by watching a spider scurry up the side of the paint-chipped shed. It stops, inspects the handlebar of Eddie’s bike that leans against the wall.

“Please don’t make your home in my bike,” Eddie asks the spider. It doesn’t reply. 

Inside it smells like vegetables and a bit like burning. The screen door snaps shut behind him, and as he toes off his shoes, Frank calls  _ welcome home! _ from the kitchen. 

“How was it, kiddo?” Frank asks as Eddie finds his way into the kitchen. There are crumbs in his mustache; one falls off as he chews. Eddie takes his place at the table, his plate apparently already fixed for him. Which is… fine. Susan is notably silent, cutting her vegan roast into tinier and tinier bites without actually eating them. “Did you make new friends? Try out the wave pool? Oh! Did you have one of those soft pretzels from the Snack Shack?” 

A little dipping goes a long way plays in his head, and Eddie smiles as he shakes his head. “I can’t have them. Gluten, remember?” Frank’s face falls a little and Eddie hurries to repair what hasn’t been broken yet. “But it was good. It was great. I had… I had a lot of fun. My co-workers are… certainly something.”

“So you like it then? You’re in for a good summer?” 

Eddie thinks of Richie’s face stretched into an impossible smile à la Pennywise and frowns. But then he thinks of Bill’s gentle leadership and the focused respect he commanded over the park; he thinks of Patty’s colorful clothes and equally colorful laugh, and he thinks of how quickly he’d felt his guard drop around her. Eddie thinks about all of the things his mother hated, of all the things his mother held him back from for twenty-two years, and how everything at Water Circus—from the germs to the safety regulations to the loud personalities that inhabited it—would send Sonia into hysterics so severe she’d likely never recover. It makes a deep, dark part of him feel a satisfaction that overwhelms him enough that he shoves a bite of the grayish pot roast into his mouth and nods before he starts laughing, or worse, sobbing. It is… not very good. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, swallowing. Through the window, the sun shines heavy and bright above the ocean. “Yeah, I think it’s going to be really, really good.”

* * *

That night, Eddie dreams in vibrant, all-encompassing greens; he dreams of pools of blue and wisps of black curls. He does not, thankfully, dream of any clowns — at least, not outright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please yell at me on tumblr @ lethbians

**Author's Note:**

> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78C1u0IFDltsdUKRW6PkGH?si=fsugMqVHRwStvEr7ZStKzg)/ [pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/SlNlSTERS/the-magic-of-little-findings/)  
> please come talk to me about frank @ lethbians on tumblr!


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